Things and Comforts
by LondonBelow
Summary: Everything is over. Nothing is normal. Wylan should be thrilled. He can leave the Barrel, bring his mother home, and spend the rest of his life making payments on that steep fee of Jesper's. Instead life on Geldstraat brings new challenges as he tries to learn to care for his tattered family and his father's empire, while (hopefully) becoming one of the few good men in Ketterdam.
1. Chapter 1

Note: This begins just after Crooked Kingdom. Spoilers ahead if you've only read Six of Crows!

* * *

The first night in the house on Geldstraat, Wylan had asked that rooms be made up for his guests. When the others had turned in, he took a spare blanket and curled up in the music room. It didn't feel right to sleep here as a guest, but he didn't feel that he was a resident, either.

His bedroom remade into a nursery made that much very clear.

This being his house now, he might have slept in the master bedroom, but he wasn't going to throw Alys out of it. She had chosen to leave her own room for his last night; apparently it made her feel closer to Jan. (Who would want to, Wylan thought bitterly, but said nothing.) She would be gone to the countryside by tomorrow afternoon, but still Wylan had no intention of sleeping there. It was his mother's. It would be ready for her when she returned.

Besides, the settee was soft.

The next morning, he folded up the blanket and went for a walk through the house. Before, he knew it in terms of the best places to hide, thought of it, perhaps, as a criminal, before he truly knew how criminals thought. Now he counted the rooms, considered the sheer size of the place.

He found himself, at the last, standing outside his father's office. He had been in here before. Recently. But it was different without Kaz.

Wylan took a breath and stepped into the office.

It was just an office. Ornate, lavish, but just an office.

An office with a huge hole in the floor and the rug and the safe… with the same chairs and desk Wylan had seen all his life.

Jan Van Eck was a man of extreme vices, but he was not without his virtues. He was diligent. Growing up, Wylan often saw his father here.

He made his way back behind the desk. The windows behind it would cast sunlight over the desk for most of the day. He rested his hands on the back of the chair.

When Wylan was small, when Jan was different, he loved this office. He loved the office because he loved his papa. It smelled the same, the same wax, same inks. Wylan remembered when he was three or four, when he could climb onto his papa's lap when he worked. He didn't understand the papers were supposed to mean anything—he was too small for that. They were just Papa's work, so they were important, like Papa was.

Wylan looked away from the desk, blinking rapidly. It was so bright in here, light stinging his eyes.

He looked across the desk to where he would have stood when he was older. When he was ten, twelve. Jan liked to have him read—try to read—at the same time, once a week. Like clockwork. Wylan knew what to expect, there was no reason for his lack of preparation. (As he was told several times.) He couldn't and knew he would never be able to, but he was there, every time, nonetheless.

He remembered the first time he saw an unexpected figure in the room. He remembered thinking the man's boots were dirty and Father didn't like that, anyone tracking muck into his office. _Perhaps you simply need a better incentive. This is for you, Wylan, you know this world holds nothing for you if you cannot learn your letters._ It was something Wylan found reassuring about Kaz. If Dirtyhands wanted him thrashed, he would do it himself. He lied and he tricked but he was honest with his fists. Kaz Brekker had never threatened to have someone else cut out Wylan's tongue and feed it to a stray cat.

He remembered looking at the page, trying to make sense of it. Looking back to his father and shaking his head. He remembered the look of resignation, like Jan had been forced into this, as he motioned the man forward. Never did the rough work himself.

Wylan flinched. He took his hands off the chair. The memories landed like blows now. He remembered the sounds, the pain. He remembered the steel in his father's eyes reminding him he had no one to blame but himself.

"Wylan."

He jerked his head up, forcing his focus into the here and now.

"Good morning, Inej. How are you feeling?"

"I'm healing," she said.

Wylan nodded. He understood: she was hurting, but it was a better hurt.

"I helped," he blurted. When she gave him a curious look, he explained, "At the Ice Court, I helped. And the Wyvil—it would have worked. The fireworks."

"I know that," Inej said. Her words moved like she did, soft and sinuous.

He looked away from her, to a spot of the floor that still had floor. It was stupid, looking for a pat on the head. Her role in all of this had been a huge one. Wylan was incidental. He made toys. Besides—no mourners, no funerals, and certainly no fanfare.

He thought about what he had said when it seemed Kaz might think about leaving Inej. She's one of us. It hadn't seemed to carry the weight he imagined it would, that fact, and maybe he had still been thinking too much that life was like stories and daydreams.

"It's just—I admire you. You're welcome to stay here for as long as you need."

Inej tilted her head to the side and smiled a secret smile.

"Thank you."

"Not only now, but always. Whenever your adventures bring you to Ketterdam."

"_Here_ you are!" Jesper stood in the doorway. "I was starting to think I'd have to eat breakfast with Alys."

"She's not so bad," Wylan objected. "She's just silly."

Inej looked away in a manner that, rather than being proper silence, spoke volumes.

"Let's take the long route," Wylan said, glancing at the hole in the floor. He knew Inej would dance through it, and Jesper could get through with style to spare, but the fall had hurt quite enough the first time. Today, Wylan at least would use the stairs.

He didn't try to convince anyone, just walked out of the room and hoped they would come with him. They did.

"Good, you're both coming. I would have felt guilty eating your breakfasts. You both look like your weight doubles when you fall in the canal. I would have eaten them, I just would have felt bad."

"When did they marry, Wylan?" Inej asked.

"About a year ago. Alys has always been kind to me. She's tried to be my friend. In her own way."

"Tried?" Now Jesper was interested.

"It's not that I don't know she's silly," Wylan said. "But we have things in common. We both like music, and animals. Even if she does have miserable taste in animals. We talked about music and her birds… Alys always assumes people are good. The silliness helps."

It was difficult to be truly friends with someone who lived in another world.

"What exactly did she think was going on here?" Inej asked.

There was more than one way to steal a man's secrets. She had seen Wylan in the office. She had experienced his father's hospitality. Wylan knew he didn't have to say it for Inej to know.

"She… thought I was naughty. My father told her that, so she believed it. She thought I would learn," he added, not sure what this demonstrated. At least someone had believed he was capable of learning. "She would bring me a cup of tea and a biscuit sometimes, after he…. She said she knew I would learn not to make him so cross."

"Wow," Jesper said. "What kind of delusion must a person be under to believe something like that? I mean—Wylan, being naughty."

"Hey!" Wylan objected.

Inej was grinning. "I can't imagine it. Can you, Jesper?"

"I made bombs," Wylan said, "and auric acid."

"I can't," Jesper told Inej, "even my credulity is strained."

"I'm good at demo!"

Jesper grabbed him in a half-hug and kissed his cheek.

Apparently that was how things would be now.

Wylan hoped that was how things would be now.

"You're better at hostage," he said.

Wylan was torn. Their glee was infectious, but that didn't stop him resenting it—he was not incapable of naughtiness! He was a criminal and everything! He had been a useful member of the crew!—with the added challenge of the sheer joy Jesper seemed to physically radiate. Being close to him was its own magic.

And maybe, just maybe, Jesper needed to be close to someone right now. Maybe he was missing his da and needed someone to be beside him.

Wylan settled for laughing. "I'm great at hostage."

As it turned out, having a hole in one's dining room ceiling was less of a problem when one had dozens of other rooms. They did sit down to breakfast with Alys, who wished everyone a polite good morning. If she was keener to see her stepson than anyone else, no one held that against her—Wylan was familiar.

"What do you study?" Alys asked Inej and Jesper.

Maybe she would have preferred to talk to Wylan, but he was gulping down bites of bread and cheese so quickly his cheeks were puffed like a squirrel's. He didn't realize he was doing it until Inej gave his cup of coffee a subtle nudge.

"Study?" Jesper repeated.

"In Belendt. You're Wylan's schoolmates, aren't you?" she asked.

Wylan nearly coughed up his coffee. He hadn't thought to come up with a convincing story. Of course Alys made the completely logical assumption…

"I study dance," Inej said, a perfectly reasonable claim for someone with her fluid movement and impeccable posture.

"That must be nice," Alys said. "Do they feed you very well there? I could… speak to Jan, when all of this business is over."

It took Wylan a second to realize she meant him. She meant the way he was wolfing down every crumb of food he could like someone was going to take it away. He was touched she noticed and forced himself to swallow his food and take another sip of coffee like he had any manners to speak of.

He did.

Jesper came to his rescue: "They feed us plenty. Wylan here is just forgetting his manners. You know he can be terribly naughty."

This time he did hack up his coffee.

"I'm sorry," he said, dabbing at his hands with a napkin and wishing his voice didn't squeak. Wishing Jesper had the decency to love this slightly _less_.

"There's a trunk of your old clothes in the attic," Alys said. Apparently she had noticed the coffee drops landing on his trousers—or possibly the fact he was still wearing yesterday's blood-splattered shirt.

"Father kept my things?"

"It was my idea." Alys was very pleased with herself. "I knew you would be home for the holidays, and there was no need for you to travel with so much. It can be inconvenient to travel. When he sent most of it to Belendt, we kept a trunk here."

"Alys… thank you."

She might have been foolish to think Jan wanted and would permit Wylan to ever return then, she might have been foolish to think Jan would ever return now, she might have been naive to overlook what was happening right under her nose, but in her own way, she cared.

After breakfast was eaten, Wylan caught the look on the cook's face as she realized how it would be different feeding two teenage boys and one Inej; he caught, to his surprise, Jesper leaping to gather the dishes. It seemed quite a lot had changed.

He made his way up to the attic and located the trunk with his old clothes. First things were first, he needed something to change into. Since there was no point in doing that with his body filthier than Jesper's mind, he took a change of clothes, shut himself in the bathroom, and ran a bath. It wasn't something he would have casually done in the Barrel—because baths cost money he didn't have, and because he had never really felt comfortable in the washtub at the boarding house with its non-locking door. He remembered being repulsed by the reek of himself, until he stopped noticing it.

This wasn't something he would have casually done here before, either. Even though it was ridiculously easy, literally a matter of turning the taps, before, a servant would have run the bath water. It was stupid now. Embarrassing. But before it was just how things were.

He sank gratefully into the hot water. It was too hot (was there a wrong way to run a bath? He sensed perhaps there was…) and stung against his bruises, but the pain faded and left him feeling at ease.

Jesper was right—Wylan wasn't a criminal by any means. He had known it his first night: he didn't have what it took to survive in the Barrel. Without Kaz, he would have died. But Wylan had still done some good demo. He knew that. He wasn't useless. He wasn't helpless.

He was, however, surrounded by things he had done nothing to earn but be born into the right family.

It started with his mother. When she was home—that was the first thing Wylan needed to do. But once she was here, once he became not only Wylan but the heir to the Van Eck empire, he promised himself he would find a way to make good. He would find a way to deserve everything he had.

Even if it did start with the thing he spent years fighting: washing behind his ears. Why that was such a point of contention, Wylan didn't know, but he preferred not to admit how old he had been before the nanny stopped checking. He still refused to believe washing behind the ears was that important, but he did it anyway.

His clothes were far too big. He had never been a particularly large boy, but now his shirt was ridiculous. The shoulders hung too low, the cuffs brushed the second knuckle. His trousers wouldn't stay up. He had the same old belt he had cut extra notches into, but even with careful folds, there were places the wool simply gave up and sagged, letting the leather of his belt rub uncomfortably against his skin. He tucked his shirt in, but that made the ill-fittingness all too obvious.

New clothes were definitely on the to-do list. He couldn't be taken seriously at the Exchange looking like this.

In the meanwhile, he headed back to the attic to scrounge up a sweater or coat to hide the worst of it. He had things to do that were more important than a well-cut suit.


	2. A Trip to Olendaal

Jesper and Inej had offered to go with him, but Wylan refused their offers. He needed to do this alone, he said. Well—mercher alone. Mercher alone meant he had hired a wagon to take him up Saint Hilde. Mercher alone meant being surrounded by people you weren't supposed to care about. Besides, he suspected neither Jesper or Inej wanted to be along for the first part of the trip.

Alys alternately sang and chattered. It took fairly little energy to keep her company, but a good deal of patience.

"Do you want to divorce him?" Wylan asked. "He might never be released." _Ghezen willing._

He knew how sound carried over the water, but there was no one nearby to hear them. Windmills and sheep would keep their conversation private—and if the answer was yes, soon enough it would be no secret. Alys's maid had kept her share of secrets already.

"That's for Mother and Father to decide," Alys replied.

Wylan nodded, struck once more by how unsettling it was his father had married Alys. For all his failings, Jan had likely not taken physical advantage of her. There was a reason Alys slept in a separate room; Wylan remembered his parents sharing a bed. Jan had simply used her to make a new heir, but that was the purpose of marriage from a contractual standpoint. Hadn't it bothered him? Hadn't he felt the wrongness of coupling with a woman barely out of girlhood?

Grabbing Wylan's hand now, she said, "Whatever happens, this is still your brother or sister."

He thought about how she had first described the baby. _We'll have a new friend to play with._ He didn't know what sort of mother Alys would make, but she cared about her child playing. He thought about the nursery. His father… _their_ father had only seen a new heir. He wondered if his brother or sister would have ever seen the kind side of Jan. Would they have been allowed to play, or be silly?

Wylan squeezed Alys's hand. "Yes," he agreed.

"You could visit. That would be lovely, if you visited."

At least she seemed to be accepting that this was long-term, but he wondered if Alys had fully thought that through. Wylan knew of and did not object to her relationship with Mister Bajan. Presumably they intended to carry on now. They should—they seemed to care for one another. Already he was planning how to act on that visit. Pretending ignorance or pretending surprise? He supposed he had a while to choose. It was strange, but—he knew he must set the terms. Alys hadn't the ability and Mister Bajan had been in his father's employ. Neither of them would feel on comfortable enough footing.

Once Alys and her maid were settled at the lake house, Wylan returned to the boat.

He had one more stop to make before home.

* * *

Wylan knew what to expect this time. That did not stop his heart hammering all the way up the long drive. He remembered, last time, collapsing here in the middle of the road, sobbing. He remembered how much it had torn at him to know what his deficiency did to his mother.

No longer blaming himself, Wylan nonetheless felt that sickness all over again.

It wasn't his fault.

_It wasn't his fault._

But that didn't change facts.

Jan Van Eck alone bore responsibility for what happened to Marya. Seven years she had suffered here. Seven years of who knew what had been done to her. Wylan didn't blame himself, but he couldn't know about his mother's suffering and not ache for her.

Wylan hopped down from the cart, reflecting that he had a very well-jogged liver by now.

He did not have a straggly bouquet. He had an envelope, and his flute because he knew she liked music and there wasn't much of it here. There would be music when she came home. He had been ashamed to realize how little he recalled about his mother, could not think of what colors she liked, if he ought to ask specifically that the blue sheet be stretched over the mattress, or if she had any favorite sweets to be sure were in the pantry or… or anything.

_I'll make up for it,_ he promised her silently.

He walked up the low stone steps and rang the bell, and wasted no time when he was shown into the parlor—though he did, vaguely, recall the wildflowers he left desperate and broken on the desk last time.

"My name is Wylan Van Eck," he informed the cheerful nurse who greeted him. They did have a lot of cheerful, well-intentioned people here. "Marya Hendricks is my mother and I've come to take her home."

"Oh," the nurse said. Clearly she had not been expecting this. "I'll—I'll need to ask the administrator. It's not often we have a patient leave like this and your mother isn't well."

_You made her unwell._

"I'll care for her," Wylan said. He wasn't sure what he had expected. Perhaps that they would see that same sweet nurse Jesper had charmed last time.

Maybe he should have taken Jesper or Inej up on their offers. What if they needed him to read something? His shoulders began to curl, but Wylan caught himself. He took a breath and straightened. He might not look like much. His clothes might be ill-fitting and wrinkled, and there were still bruises on his face. But he was here. And he wasn't leaving without her.

He knew what the administrator saw: a child. Someone too young to understand what he was doing. Even after Wylan produced the transfer of authority, the man couldn't hide his reservations.

"Now, young Mister Van Eck, are you quite aware of your mother's condition?"

"No," Wylan admitted, "I'm not. Any information you can provide would be useful in caring for her at home." _Where she belongs_, he added silently.

He knew the administrator was trying to scare him, frighten Wylan into realizing he wasn't equal to this task. Marya Hendricks, the man explained, was sometimes calm but prone to violent outbursts from time to time. It was common in victims of hysteria and paranoia.

Wylan listened. He nodded. He didn't say—of course she was prone to violent outbursts. It was how he had known she was still herself, that soft insistence that her name was _Marya Van Eck_. Her small resistance. His mother had clung to what she could against the people who tried to take it from her, albeit meaning to help. Wylan clung to his determination but he couldn't deny the clear good intentions of the asylum staff.

When the man had finished, Wylan said, "Thank you. Would it be possible for me to wait with her while her things are packed?"

It was not a discussion, he meant to clarify: she was coming home today.

Nevertheless, he found himself talked around until he agreed to see her before making a final decision. He couldn't very well explain he had already seen her just days ago. _Last time I was a Shu boy_. That seemed like a great way to get himself a room here as well.

At least now, Wylan knew what to expect. It didn't stop his nerves. Last time, she seemed… did she remember him? Know him, somehow? Would she know him now?

"I'm afraid it's not one of her better days," the nurse told Wylan. Not Betje, the one who had been charmed by Jesper's smile. (Wylan could scarcely blame her. Jesper's smile was difficult to resist.)

"What does that mean?" Wylan asked. "Where are we going?"

"We're going to her room. This might not be the best day to bring her home. If you can come back, maybe give her time to adjust to the idea…"

He shook his head. "She's coming home today."

Why wasn't she painting in the sunlight? She had looked worn out, but not entirely miserable there.

Wylan thought of the days he hadn't wanted to leave his bed, the days in the Barrel he was too scared to leave the room. His heart seized to think of his mama like that, sitting on her bed, frightened that Jan's men were here to hurt her.

They hadn't, though. They hadn't hurt her. Right?

"Here we are," the nurse chirped. She unlocked the door and held it open.

Everything inside Wylan leapt, but his skin was frozen still as stone.

"Mister Van Eck," the nurse told him gently, "you can come back another day. She does have bad days, sometimes."

If this had been the Marya he found when he first visited, Wylan didn't know if he could have left. Jesper might have had to haul him bodily from the asylum. And then he would have gone back to Ketterdam, aimed a pistol at his father's forehead, and probably been killed by the stadwatch before he could pull the trigger.

Marya glared at them with raw hatred. Wylan had imagined her frozen in fear. It wasn't fear that restrained her: it was leather straps. Her wrists and ankles were wrapped in soft cotton to protect her skin, but she was unmistakably tied down.

"Why would you do this to her?" Wylan asked.

"Mister Van Eck—"

"Don't call me that!"

He was Wylan Van Eck, but right now he preferred to be Wylan Hendricks. He preferred to forget the name Van Eck.

Hearing it was enough to make Marya jolt. The bed smashed hard against the floor.

"You're here to kill me!"

"No," Wylan said. "No, I'm not."

He stepped into the room and pulled a chair close to the bed.

"I promise I'm not."

Marya yanked at the restraints.

"It's all right," Wylan said.

This wasn't what he had pictured. This wasn't the woman he thought he was bringing home. Somehow, he imagined… he didn't know.

He reached for the restraint.

"I'm going to untie this now."

It wasn't a tie. It was a buckle. Did that matter? He wasn't sure what mattered. He felt like he had fallen asleep and this—it was a dream. It was just a bad dream.

The moment the buckle loosened, her fingers latched around his wrist, so tight he felt a jolt of fear shoot through him and had to remind himself, _this is my mother_.

"He sent you!"

"He didn't," Wylan said. "He didn't. I'm—I'm Wylan."

"That's my son's name."

"Yes. I am your son. I'm your son Wylan Van Eck. They call me Wylan Hendricks sometimes." His friends called him a lot of things. "I used your name when I ran away."

On reflection, that had probably made it easier for his father to find him.

"Wylan."

He nodded. "Yes. I… brought… I brought my flute. Would you like me to play something?"

"What are you doing here?"

"I came for you. I came to bring you home."

The promise was supposed to help. He thought she would like that, to come back to her rightful home, live with her family. There would be some awkwardness, he imagined, if she recognized Jesper, but at the moment he wasn't sure that was a risk.

Instead she yanked her hand away and slapped him.

Wylan could only stare. She had _never_ slapped him. She had never so much as smacked his backside when he was a child. He wanted it to be an accident, but he knew it wasn't. Maybe she didn't believe he was who he said he was. Maybe she thought—

Maybe she thought what he had thought.

Wylan remembered how he used to feel the chilling fear when someone looked too long at him. He remembered ducking his head and hurrying around the corner as quickly as possible, whether or not he needed to turn. Attention might have meant someone his father sent to finish what they started that day on the boat.

"Get out!" Marya shouted. "Get out! Go back to Jan, tell him I believed your lies! You're not my son! You are not my son! You are not my son!" Well—she shouted that, and a few more colorful words as well.

Wylan was too startled to resist when he was pushed out of the room, watching and wishing he could stop watching as his mother's hand was once more restrained. Part of him respected the way she kept fighting. Even half-gone, she was still holding on—but what to? He had thought… maybe he thought he could heal her.

"Stop," he said, softly, not sure if he wanted Marya to stop shouting at him or the rather less cheerful of the asylum's employees to stop holding her down. He saw that she was violent, but they were hurting her. She was scared. Louder, "Stop! You're hurting her!"

"Mister Van Eck—"

"LEAVE HER ALONE!"

"Mister Van Eck!"

The nurse pulled him back from the door. Wylan no longer saw his mother, but he heard the sounds. She was still fighting a losing battle.

He looked into the nurse's eyes. Angry as he wanted to stay, Wylan saw that the young woman truly felt for him now. She visibly cared. The people looking after his mother, in general, wanted to help her, they just didn't understand.

He felt his lip quiver and forced it to stop.

"She's my mother."

"I understand," the nurse said. "She's not well, Mister Van Eck—"

"Please call me Wylan."

He couldn't hear that name anymore.

"Wylan, your mother is sick. She still loves you, but sometimes other thoughts make her forget that."

Wylan nodded. He wanted to believe that. Would anyone really say different, though? Would any nurse tell a patient's teenage son—_she's beyond even knowing who you are_?

He took a breath. Again. He wished Jesper were here and immediately felt guilty for wishing that. Jesper had known what to do last time, but Wylan needed to learn to stand for himself. It wasn't fair to Jesper to expect him to negotiate these situations, or to be the shoulder Wylan constantly leaned on.

"How… how long…?"

"The past couple of days have been difficult ones, but it's not always this way."

Wylan nodded again. He liked nodding right now; he was grateful for nodding. It gave him time to put the anger inside him into words.

"Your father sent a couple of clerks to visit with her and it was very taxing for Marya. She can't answer too many complicated questions. Her mind isn't what it was."

He tried to make sense of all of those words. He tried and he failed. All he heard was that she had been this way after he and Jesper visited.

Then he heard his father's voice.

_Moron. Disgrace. Fool._

_Traitor._

_You stay away from her._

_You'll destroy everything._

He had. His father meant his merchant empire, but Wylan barely cared about that—hadn't, at the time. Though he hadn't destroyed it, he had destroyed the person who mattered most to him. She had been vulnerable; he had seen it. Why hadn't he been more careful? Why hadn't he… why… he didn't know. What to do, what he should have done.

The corridor seemed to lurch. Wylan placed one palm against the wall for a sense of steadiness, only a glimmer. His stomach and lungs followed the lurching. Wylan could take a lot. He had learned to take sharp words from Kaz without looking away. He had learned to take a beating from whichever goons his father had on hand, and he had learned from his friends to take it without breaking until he needed to for their scheme to work.

He didn't know if he could take this. He didn't know if he could bear losing her again.

_Wy, listen to me. You have to pull yourself together._

Jesper's directive from their last visit cut through the swirl of panic in his head. He was right. Wylan focused on the floor. He focused on breathing, on pulling air into his lungs, forcing it out.

After a few moments, he was able to focus on the nurse again. She still looked sympathetic, but it was a measured sympathy. Wylan wondered, if he couldn't pull himself together, would he become a patient here himself? He couldn't allow that to happen. Everything everyone had done to put him here would fall apart if Wylan appeared insane now.

"I apologize," he told the nurse, his voice thin, "seeing my mother that way—I find myself rather shaken."

The measure on her sympathy broke, a flood of relief that she was talking to a sensible person.

"That's quite understandable. It can be a shock."

"I'd like to visit again tomorrow. Unless that would be detrimental to her health?"

"It's good for our patients to have visitors. We'll look forward your return. It's very good of you to come and see her."


	3. Jesper's Day

They took care of the Transfer of Authority after breakfast, and as far as reading went, it was light work. Jesper read the same words he'd read in the asylum, the words Wylan had recited in the Church of Barter. There was more, of course. Details. Worship. Ghezen and his works and so on—as far as gods went, Jesper thought, Ghezen was a dull one. At least Djel had a magic tree. He might not believe the Saints were more than powerful zowa, but they had some good stories behind them!

There was a letter along with the legal papers from Jellen Radmakker. He sent his best wishes after the unpleasantness—"You merch types aren't prone to overstatement"—and requesting that a time be set for him to visit.

"What do you think he wants?"

"That's all it says."

Wylan nodded thoughtfully. "In the Church, he seemed genuinely bothered by my father's behavior. Maybe he just felt an obligation to speak on behalf of the Council?"

"Maybe," Jesper said. He didn't know. "We used to visit in Novyi Zem when someone lost a loved one. Paying respects." It was traditional to bring food, but since Jesper did the cooking at home and didn't have much of a hand for it, he and Colm were likelier to bring sympathy and flowers. "Maybe the same applies to imprisonment?"

"I don't love him."

"When Radmakker visits, don't use that as your opening line."

"We'll invite him to visit in three days' time," Wylan decided with a veneer of determination on his face not quite veiling his uncertainty. "That should give my mother time to settle in without seeming irresponsible."

Jesper answered the implied question, "That sounds good, Wy."

Wylan dictated the letter haltingly. Jesper read it back, and they made changes before finalizing it. And there it was: Wylan and Jesper had written a piece of official correspondence together, and Radmakker was invited to visit the Van Eck mansion in three days. The mansion with the hole in the dining room ceiling. The one inhabited by a wayward son and his inexplicable friends, soon to be joined by a woman returned from the dead.

"It's official," Jesper said, "I'm your secretary."

"Did I agree to that?"

"Yes."

"I don't remember agreeing to that."

"I'll tell you what I'd tell anyone else, speaking as Mister Van Eck's secretary, this is the official word…"

Jesper didn't need to finish the sentence because Wylan was snickering too much.

Only when he was done laughing did Jesper tell him, grinning, "You're a proper mercher now, beautiful."

He was so cute when he blushed.

"Do you inherit his seat on the Merchant Council?" Jesper asked.

"I'm not of age. They'll appoint someone to serve in my stead. They could hold a vote of no confidence but it's unlikely, at least unless I run the empire into the ground."

Ghezen would frown on that.

Jesper signed Wylan's name and set the letter aside, giving the ink a moment to dry. In the meantime he fiddled with a stick of sealing wax. Merchants, it seemed, did not simply send a piece of paper. Probably wise.

"They'll be watching. The Council is always watching their peers, but at my age, they might expect failure, some might hope for it. Dryden in particular—Kaz was right that he hasn't made good. If I fail, he looks more successful; if I succeed, he looks worse."

"Aren't their children your friends?"

Wylan gave him a look. Usually Jesper would like those blue eyes trained on him for several long seconds, but this time it felt like being looked at across a great chasm and he wasn't sure why.

Then Wylan cleared his throat.

"My father wanted to protect me from anyone learning about—to protect the family, really. Any brothers or sisters or children I had would have been hurt by the damage to our reputation. A merchant family's reputation—"

Ghezen, Djel, and all the Saints save him from a lecture on a merchant family's reputation.

"You weren't allowed to have friends?"

"Well… you must have been a lonely child, too," Wylan reasoned, "growing up on a farm. How many children lived near you?"

"Half a dozen I saw regularly," Jesper replied. His da made a point of getting Jesper off the farm often enough, especially after they lost his mother. No, it wasn't every day, but Colm knew a child needed more company than just his father. He saw to it Jesper had a chance to be a kid. The more he heard about Jan Van Eck, the more fiercely Jesper missed Colm.

Jesper had imagined before what a merchant's life was like. On some fronts, he hadn't been wrong. The beds were soft and the food was good, and he had woken up that morning to find his boots had been cleaned. When he was small, he couldn't have imagined a place like Wylan's office. It was lavish beyond his wildest imaginings. He also hadn't imagined the pettiness of merchants and their concerns for reputations. He might have known some stuck-up types back home, but no one who hoped someone else's farm would fail so theirs looked better.

"Are you sure you don't want me to come to Olendaal?"

Wylan nodded, looking considerably less than sure.

"I have the authority to make this decision," he told himself as much as Jesper—but Jesper understood. He could charm most people, maybe not into taking broad strokes against their self-interest the way Nina could, but well enough. Wylan was earnest, with a pure heart and the guile of a trout. He needed to learn to deal for himself. What better first round than one he had not only the means but the right to win?

If only that didn't leave Jesper with a bundle of free time on his hands.

* * *

Keeping horses in Ketterdam was impractical. They weren't needed. Keeping such creatures was purely a matter of ego and status.

Naturally, Jan Van Eck kept several.

Jesper stepped into Van Eck's stable and took a deep breath, enjoying the scent of straw blocking the scent of eternal damp. Ketterdam had excitement and energy Jesper liked to throw himself into, but this was more like home. He had lasted all of a heartbeat at university. The only places he had lived were the Barrel and his father's farm. If he was going to manage to avoid his… vices… something that rang of familiar domesticity helped him believe he just might manage it.

"Good afternoon," he told one of the horses in a croon usually reserved for his revolvers. "Oh, look at you…"

Of course nothing Jan Van Eck owned would look like a working horse.

Rather—nothing Jan Van Eck had chosen would look like a working horse. Wylan owned them now.

This animal looked like a fancy mercher horse, his mane and tail groomed. His coat had been brushed recently, though he had clearly rolled in the straw since then. Jesper ran a hand along the horse's side, chattering as he did—he knew better than to get sneaky around a horse. He was bruised enough from the Kherguud. No need to take a hoof to the leg just for fun.

"You're tall for a horse," Jesper observed, "do the other horses tell you that? I understand your suffering. They don't see how inherently glorious we tall types are. There's so much more of us to love…" His voice trailed off as he noticed something beneath his fingers.

"You seem delightful," he said, less humor in it, just words as he brushed off a patch of hair.

"You're a very pretty horse."

He traced a thin scar with one fingertip.

"Don't repeat that to Wylan, now," Jesper continued, recovering his humor. "Any of it! Especially the part about you being a pretty horse. Double especially the part about tall types being better. We are, but a small type wouldn't understand. Yeah, you'll keep that between us. Good boy. Good horse."

Following a hunch, he repeated the same routine with the other horses. They were all similarly groomed, all with similar chestnut coats. It was almost like livery, the way Van Eck had chosen his horses to look like parts of a set. Jesper supposed there was aesthetic appeal to it. If you liked boring.

"Who's that in here?"

Jesper was half-hidden behind a horse when the call rang out. He took a few steps to reveal himself.

The man standing in the doorway wouldn't have looked out of place in the Barrel, Jesper thought. He had a kempt but still dirtied appearance—a man who did his reasonable best, but worked with horses and could only be expected so much cleanness. There was a shrewdness in his eyes, though. A hardness.

"You're one of Mister Wylan's friends."

"Jesper Fahey," he supplied. "And you're the hostler."

He nodded. "Ja. It's time to put them out," he added, indicating the horses.

"Allow me to help! I grew up on a farm," Jesper explained. He knew his way around horses. As they took the horses out to their paddock, Jesper struck up a conversation: "Have you worked here long?"

"Nearly twenty years I've worked for Mister Van Eck."

"He's a good boss?"

"He's a fair man. You do what he asks of you, he'll do right by you."

"It's a shame what happened to him."

The hostler gave Jesper a surprised look, then slowly he nodded. "It is."

Jesper glanced around before he continued, "Wylan is my friend, but he never struck me as much of a businessman."

The hostler hesitated a moment, then said, "Not for me to say."

"Go on," Jesper goaded, grinning. "I mean—a flautist."

"Well—this whole business is going to blow over. All will be set to rights in a matter of weeks, just wait and see if it isn't."

Jesper nodded. Seemed reasonable, unless you knew that Kaz Brekker did not leave loose ends.

Free time did not agree with Jesper. Neither did the hostler, though he didn't know it, and he found a reason to excuse himself soon enough.

Inej and Wylan were both out, which left Jesper to rattle around on his own.

He returned to the office with the hole in the floor. Just for fun, he stuck his head through the hole and peered around upside-down at the dining room. It was all very nice. These were the sorts of rooms a thief would want to pick up and make off with, roll up an entire room and stick it in your pocket.

Then Jesper turned his attention to the desk. He supposed he might as well get started here. He hadn't the faintest of clues what the Van Eck empire really was or encompassed other than quite a lot. He really hadn't the faintest of clues what a merchant was supposed to do all day. (Probably not what Kaz Brekker's preferred gunslinger liked to do all day, which was sleep. The world was a good deal more exciting once the sun had set.) If he was going to help Wylan, though, he needed to learn.

Van Eck hadn't skimped on the chair. Sitting on this thing made Jesper feel like he was pretending to be a king rather than a merchant. He bounced. Very comfortable chair.

Taking a sheaf of papers from a desk drawer, Jesper remembered again seeing the dishes his father had tidied up, remembered what he said about cleaning up after the rowdy group. That wasn't who Jesper wanted to be anymore, someone who made messes and left other people to clean them up. At least not entirely—technically having servants was a good thing, right? It kept more people working! Industriousness! Ghezen would approve! Smaller domestic messes maybe were okay to create, but the larger ones, those Jesper meant to avoid.

Jesper tapped his fingers on the desk, making a valiant attempt at understanding what he saw. The basic concepts he grasped. Its significance… perhaps not so much. The report covered the weather for the past month in the Southern Colonies—precipitation, humidity, temperature.

Maybe this wasn't the best approach.

Jesper could read the words. Making sense of them was Wylan's job.

He nearly vaulted over the desk when he heard something about Wylan from downstairs—a massive hole in the floor did wonders for acoustics. Jesper managed to tuck the papers back into the drawer they had come from. Making use of the accidental passageway, he swung himself from this floor to the next, landed rolling, and recovered his feet. The move left some of his sore places whimpering, but it had been fun.

He could tell himself all he wanted that he was just grateful for a break from the weather, and that he knew Wylan would be with his mother and need to focus his attention there. A part of Jesper knew the truth: he was out of his depth, his hands were getting restless, and Wylan was what was left that made sense.

When he walked through the front door, Jesper felt his expression shift from hopeful to lost, matching the misery on Wylan's face. Something had gone terribly wrong. Van Eck had Marya killed. It seemed the sort of thing he would do.

"Wy?"

"Sh… she had a bad day," Wylan said. He had been crying. It was in the red rimming his eyes and his rough-edged voice.

Jesper nodded.

She had a bad day.

Wylan shook his head and came back with a weak smile: "What about you? How was your first day as a mercher?"

"Honestly? Boring. Not much flash to the lifestyle, is there?"

Wylan shook his head again. "There's not," he acknowledged, "but it has its advantages. Just wait until the markets open again."

"I met your horses."

"That's strange to think about. My horses."

"Do you know how to ride?"

"Of course I do."

Jesper thought about Wylan's shooting—he had known how to handle a weapon, in an impractical, recreational fashion. He imagined that was how Wylan knew how to ride.

"Met the hostler, too.

There was a moment, then, "Oh."

Jesper had fallen into step beside Wylan, and realized now they were heading out toward the garden on the canal. "Where are we going?"

"The boathouse."

"You know what boathouses are good for?"

"Storing boats?"

"Yes. Storing boats. This is my 'storing boats' face and my 'storing boats' tone."

Jesper genuinely hadn't a clue what Wylan wanted in the boathouse—he guessed it was not what he had been implying. Pity. Maybe another time.

The boathouse was plain, but tidy, with a sense of damp on even the dry walls. The doors were locked up for the night, the gondel floating in its berth. The boathouse was practical, with bits and pieces Jesper didn't recognize but supposed were useful in maintaining boats, everything in its place.

"It must be nice to own a boat."

"I own a fleet. It's strange."

"And horses."

"And horses," Wylan agreed.

"This would be a nice place to—"

Inej melted out of the shadows.

Jesper startled and was mildly frustrated to note that Wylan didn't.

"We thought it was a reasonable cover," Wylan explained.

"For?"

"Inej?"

"I looked for a contact today, a fabrikator."

Jesper crossed his arms. "You should have told me."

He knew he needed to address this. He had accepted—told himself he had accepted—that he was a fabrikator, that denying it only did him harm. He knew he needed to make a plan. In the back of his mind, he appreciated his friends helping him. In the front of his mind, he resented his friends springing this on him.

"I meant to," Wylan said, reaching up to touch his shoulder. "It wasn't supposed to be a secret. Inej and I only talked about this earlier and then there was the… emergency… with Alys's birds." Traveling with birds was more complicated than they had expected. Or possibly traveling with Alys. "We weren't going behind your back."

Jesper wanted to stay frustrated, but the earnest look on Wylan's face was undeniable. He relented: "How did it go, Inej?"

"She's gone. I checked others I know and they've all gone to ground after the Kherguud and with rumors about parem. It's going to be a challenge finding someone to help you with being Grisha—"

"Zowa," Jesper interrupted. He accepted that he was a fabrikator, but he was zowa, as his mother had been.

"Zowa," Inej amended.

He imagined the Wraith knew of several zowa who had been hiding out in Ketterdam. It was a sensible place to disappear—bustling, with a promise of anonymity. But then, with that anonymity came the men and women who dealt in secrets.

"Why are we talking about this in the boathouse? The servants will think we're—oh."

Right. Because nothing made better gossip than a tryst. If anyone reached any conclusions, it would be that Jesper and Wylan were sneaking off to have a good time. Inej's presence was a non-factor. No one would know she had been there. In the longer term they would need a better cover, but it would do, for now.

"The only zowa I know are indentured," Wylan said. "It wouldn't be—I'm their… I hold their contracts."

Now Inej was the one frowning. "You what?"

"It's part of the household, part of my inheritance."

"Release them from the contracts," she said. "Help them out of the city."

"I'll talk to them—"

"They can't be honest with you. You own their lives. They're property to you."

"How can you say that?"

"You haven't said anything to them yet, not even thought about them until it might impact Jesper. You called them your inheritance."

"I called the contracts my inheritance. Not all indentures are exploitative," he said defensively. "Grisha are vulnerable to all sorts of dangers and allying themselves with merchant houses offers a degree of protection—"

"Is that what your father taught you?"

The sting hit home. Wylan lowered his head.

"Enough, Inej," Jesper said, stepping between them. Indentures were a part of life in Ketterdam. They could debate the harms and merits of the system another time, but Jesper didn't want to see Inej or Wylan hurt. Hurt more, anyway.

"She's right," Wylan muttered.

"Hey, we came here to talk about me," Jesper objected. "Remember? Me?"

"You're right, too," Wylan said. "We wanted to talk to you about options for finding a tutor or another way for you to start learning what you're capable of. Finding fabrikators wasn't the easiest thing to start with in Ketterdam. With knowledge of parem, it's—it'll take time. And we should have included you from the beginning."

"Well, I for one feel this was a very productive talk," Jesper said.

"Jes, please think about it."

Jesper nodded. Then he reached over and tugged Wylan's shirt askew.

"What—"

"Alibi," he said, unbuttoning his waistcoat.

"Oh. That's a good idea."

"Been known to have those from time to time," Jesper said. He would have mussed Wylan's hair, but those silky curls were a mix of permanently mussed and utterly unmussable. "Oh, and you'd better go first."

Wylan nodded, accepting this like it was an instruction on a job.

As he headed out, Jesper said, "That's not about the alibi, I want to look at your bottom when you walk away."

Wylan froze. Jesper could just make out the tops of his ears turning pink.

"Flushed and breathless," Jesper said. "Perfect."

"It… was about the alibi?"


	4. Laughter and Breathlessness

The music room was already Jesper's favorite room. It was the most fun. After Inej drifted off to bed that night, the boys stayed, Wylan showing that if he couldn't bring himself to sing the naughtier tunes, at least he could play them on the piano.

Jesper had spent the better part of half an hour beside Wylan on the piano bench. Wylan probably didn't realize he was leaning heavier against Jesper, and that jangling place inside him was quieter with someone to overwhelm his thoughts. Despite the fact it was one of the least appropriate places to sleep, Jesper considered staying here.

He could put his head down on the keyboard and sleep on the piano bench with Wylan's head pillowed on his lap. That seemed utterly reasonable.

Jesper gave Wylan's shoulder a small jostle. It was enough to startle him out from half-sleep.

"Sorry," Wylan said instinctively, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He hadn't been drooling, but that was good information to store for later. He took an unsteady step off the bench.

"I was going to head up to bed—"

"Of course—"

"If you want to join me."

Apparently there was no polite response for that, because Wylan's answer was quiet surprise as his sleepy, mercher-trained brain looked for the right answer. Jesper almost could have been offended.

"I don't want to lie with you," Wylan blurted. His face was patchy as he continued, "I-I mean—I do want to lie with you," and now his entire face was red, "very m—um, not that I would presume to…"

I knew you were a virgin. That wasn't important right now, but Jesper liked knowing he had been right. There was no way Wylan had been caught in a sweaty romp with anyone.

"What I meant was… that…"

Entertaining as this was, if Wylan turned any redder he might pass out—which would solve their problem since Jesper had no doubt he could carry him up to bed, but wasn't the perfect solution.

Instead, he rested a hand on Wylan's cheek—he could actually feel the heat of that blush—tilted his face up, and kissed him. It was gentle. It didn't ask for more.

"I meant you, starlight. Nightshirts and everything. We won't lie together until you're ready." He had intentionally used Wylan's words, nothing rough from the Barrel or practical from the farm or casual from the entire rest of the world, but it still embarrassed him. So Jesper plunged ahead, "Even though I know you want to. I don't blame you, I'm not easy to resist. Come on," he said, slinging an arm around Wylan's shoulders, "I'll keep you safe and warm."

Wylan allowed himself to be led out of the music room as he asked, "Do you keep the revolvers on you when you sleep?"

"Thought about that, have you?"

"No," Wylan said.

Jesper didn't believe him.

"Did you picture any other clothes?"

"No. I mean, I've never pictured it. You."

He definitely had. Jesper stored that information for later.

Delightfully bashful as it made Wylan, Jesper truly hadn't been asking for nor offering anything more than company. Not that he would have minded—but, since Wylan didn't want to, Jesper put the thought aside. He kept his back turned when Wylan changed.

"I don't mind if you want to look," Jesper added. Judging from the catch in his breathing, Wylan at the very least took a quick peek.

Wylan's nightshirt didn't fit. Like the rest of his clothes, it had belonged to a well-fed son of a merchant house. Now it hung with the neckline askew and showing half his shoulder. Wylan tried folding the cuffs over, but the soft fabric kept falling to cover his hands.

"I looked through the desk today," Jesper began with a glance at Wylan's face to gauge how the words landed. He tensed a moment, but only a moment. A flinch held too long. "Why all the weather reports?"

"My father has—I… I have interests in textiles, spices, and grains. The weather reports indicate what to expect. One year there was a drought in Eames Chin. My father put aside funds and we went to Eames Chin to offer loans on farms after the bad harvest. And a year later, after another bad harvest, to call in debts."

"We?"

"I was only six. I didn't know what we were doing."

Jesper did. Jan Van Eck had known men would be desperate. So he went to squeeze them. Probably offered loans against the next year's crop, knowing if it succeeded he would make money and if it failed he would make more when the farmers couldn't pay and their livelihood, their children's inheritance, became part of the Van Eck empire. All the while his profits rose because he already controlled a good portion of the spice trade and prices surge during shortages.

Jesper didn't know what to say about a rich merchant who could afford the investment using his wealth to take those farmers' everything. Instead, he asked, "Which side of the bed do you want?"

It was easier not to think about that when he was under the covers with Wylan. There was quite a lot that stopped mattering under those circumstances. With their heads on their respective pillows, Jesper was able to look evenly at Wylan. As luck would have it, his eyes were just as blue from this angle. Lashes weren't as nice, but you couldn't have everything.

"Wy."

"Hm."

"What happened at Saint Hilde?"

Wylan blinked quickly. "She was—she didn't recognize me. They had her tied down."

This action will have no echo. What did the Suli say to tell someone you hurt because they hurt?

Jesper's eyes flickered to the fresh mark on Wylan's cheek.

"She didn't mean it. She's been in that place too long, she doesn't know what's what anymore. I wanted so badly to bring her home. I was going to bring her… I didn't know. Not where I lived in the Barrel, but—somewhere. Somewhere she could paint and sit at the piano. I thought…"

"It won't be forever. You could talk to Inej."

"I won't put her through remembering that."

Of course not. Inej might have some insight into Marya's experiences because she knew what it was like to have your home and freedoms taken, though her experiences had been so much worse. Even for his mother, Wylan wouldn't cause someone that level of pain of asking them to delve into such memories.

"Besides, she's already angry with me and for good reason. I didn't even consider what holding indentures meant for the Grisha. At least most of the servants know me; they barely know who I am. Will you help me find the papers tomorrow? Current contracts ought to be in his office somewhere."

"I'll help, but Inej was out of line to say that. It's only been a day, we both still have bruises from the Church of Barter." It was a little early to be saying Wylan didn't care and had fallen into his father's thinking patterns. Though if he held a Healer's indenture, they might be useful with the bruises.

"All I thought about was my mother. I didn't even consider the indentured Grisha. What if he was right? What if I can never grow to be a man? I thought like a son, not a merchant."

"He wasn't. No one would fault you for trying to take care of your family."

"I was wrong. I thought—I thought I would be enough."

Wylan's voice cracked on the last sentence, the thing he had been afraid of facing since he left the asylum that afternoon.

"Hey." Jesper reached for Wylan's hand. "You are enough."

Suddenly pink, Wylan whispered his reply: "I could watch you say those words for the rest of my life."

It was never the wrong time for that!

"You can." Please do. "You'll keep trying with your mama. Real life isn't like storybooks, it takes time and hard work."

Wylan nodded. "Thank you."

"You're already running a tab."

Wylan rolled his eyes. (All the Saints, those eyes…)

"Speaking of which… is that really what you call it? Lying with someone?"

"I also know anatomy," Wylan said, defensive. "I studied anatomy books. For figure drawing."

"But…"

"I didn't say I read the descriptions."

Jesper laughed. "So what else do you call the act itself, then?"

Wylan replied so softly Jesper almost couldn't make out the word "coupling".

"You would use math."

"Ghezen," Wylan swore. He pulled his pillow over his head.

"Wy…"

Jesper tugged at the pillow, but Wylan wasn't giving it up.

"So you wouldn't call it rutting?" Jesper teased.

Wylan groaned in protest.

"Mating? A tumble in the hay? Having a romp? Humping? I know you know that word." Wylan didn't reply, so Jesper clearly had no choice but to continue: "Wearing a green gown? Licking both sides of the waffle? Three-to-one and bound to lose? Shaking the sheets without music? Going bread and butter fashion? Boarding a land carrack?"

"Jesper!"

"Shooting between the wind and the water? Winding a ball of yarn? Laboring leather? Playing the blanket hornpipe? Piercing the hogshead? A ride below the crupper?"

By now the sound muffled by the pillow might have been laughter or sobs. Jesper lifted the pillow halfway off Wylan's head. His face was bright red and tears glistened in his eyes. Wylan couldn't stop laughing.

Jesper grinned and kissed him. Wylan kissed back. It was a ridiculous sort of kiss, all laughter and breathlessness. And it was perfect.

Jesper turned down the lamp. He scooted closer to Wylan and, since Wylan wasn't giving up his hiding spot, pulled the pillow over both their heads. Somehow this seemed… apt. How else would they share a bed for the first time but close and chaste with their heads under a pillow?

"This is going to be easy now that I know euphemisms are enough to make you smile. Just imagine how many I know for a man's—"

"Ghezen's coffers, Jesper!"

"Is that the strongest swear you know?"

"I know plenty of profanity words, but it doesn't add much to the conversation."

Profanity words.

A month ago he would have teased Wylan for saying that. Now, it may have been the most adorable thing Jesper had ever heard.

They were quiet for a few minutes before Wylan asked, softly like Jesper might have nodded off, "Jes?"

"Mm."

"Is that—um—waffle thing—do people really say that?"

"I made that one up."

"Did you make them all up?"

"Are you sure you want to know?"

"No," Wylan decided quickly, "no, thank you. Good night, Jesper."

"'night, Sunshine."

"That doesn't make sense."

"Shh. Go to sleep."

"Jesper?"

And people thought he never stopped talking! Jesper might have been teetering on potentially saying something sharp when he murmured instead, "Hm?"

"You're perfect."

Any desire to speak sharply evaporated. Jesper closed the last few fractions of an inch between them; Wylan shifted, slipping an arm around Jesper.

"If you were cold, you only had to say."


	5. The Lapel Pin

Inej could come and go as she pleased. She did not need to be crawling the walls of the Van Eck mansion. She did it anyway, neither to get anywhere nor to slip away. Because she loved climbing up high and feeling the fresh air on her face. Because it was fun.

She turned cartwheels on the roof and skittered down, swinging herself about.

The weather was crisp and clear, and the city was relatively quiet. Maybe that was because the city was always relatively quiet in Geldstraat after the Barrel. Maybe it was quieter than usual with the threat of plague. Whatever the reason, Inej enjoyed it.

"Give it back!"

She edged along the brickwork carefully now as she approached an open window.

"Come get it!"

Jan Van Eck's study was not, she imagined, a place one usually heard voices raised in fun. Inej peered in.

"This is childish, Jesper!"

Whatever Jesper had in his hand, Wylan was making a sporting effort to retrieve—but Jesper had strength and height on his side. Judging from the glance he gave the furniture, Wylan was seriously considering climbing onto the desk to get… whatever it was. He was dressed better today. Inej guessed someone had noticed his unfortunate apparel yesterday and taken in some of his old clothes. Merchants really did live in another world.

Inej smiled at the two. She had liked Jesper before. He always had a knack for finding the one unsmiling person in the room and drawing them into the party. He had struggled with his weaknesses, but knew his strengths, knew he was good in a fight and always had an eye on his friends in a dangerous situation. For every time she had looked too long at Kaz and thought too much how she wanted to be noticed for more than her skills, Jesper had been there to remind her she was seen and valued.

Wylan—that was complicated. Long before Wylan saw Inej, she followed him through the Barrel, collecting information for Kaz, reporting back little of use: a sullen, skittish boy who sometimes smiled at nothing and ducked his head when he caught himself doing it.

Impractical as Wylan was, Inej had thought she would watch him starve to death before she found anything helpful to report to Kaz. He was a soft, thoughtful, useless creature. He would share what little food he had with bedraggled strays and beggars like he didn't realize he was half of each. She had seen him speak up for children when he saw a parent raise a hand in public and the child flinch away, the sort of thing most people knew to just turn away from.

"He'll die before he does something useful," Inej had told Kaz. "He's no use to you as a corpse."

"If he's half as pretty as you say, he'll manage."

She hadn't liked that Kaz, knowing what had been done to her, so casually consigned someone to that fate. Anyway, she had only mentioned his appearance to stress that he was soft.

"I don't think so. He doesn't seem to know how to talk to anyone."

"Men don't always need them to talk."

The look in her eyes must have said that was too awful. She hated Kaz being so cavalier about terrible things. She hated him reminding her about them and seeming to suggest that it ought to be accepted. That's life.

"Boys die every day in the Barrel, or swallow their pride and survive. Why should this one be so different? Because of his daddy's money?"

Inej hadn't said anything, but she thought,_ No, Kaz. Because you made me care about him._

Wylan and Jesper weren't entirely dissimilar. They were different: Jesper was charming, confident, quick with a joke. On a job, Jesper was independent and efficient while Wylan did good demo work when told to. But they were both clever boys tripping over their weaknesses and poorly concealing their kind, large hearts in a rough world.

As a couple, they were… strange. They reminded her of her cousins when she heard them laughing and whispering together at night. A part of her felt envy. Wished someone had been there to preserve her innocence the way Kaz preserved Wylan's. Wished Kaz could reach out to her the way Jesper would to Wylan. Wished Nina were here, because if she were up whispering and giggling into the night, there was no one else she would be with but Nina…

Mostly she was happy for them.

Inej, in a smooth movement, hauled herself onto the windowsill, leapt onto the desk, then hurled herself over Jesper's head, snatching his prize from his fingertips before he realized what was happening. She landed in the doorway.

While the boys stared for a moment, Inej examined the token. She recognized it: a lapel pin with a fat ruby.

"Hey," Jesper objected.

Inej grinned. "Come get it," she said.

Then she took off running.

Jesper stood a chance at catching her on even ground; he was long-legged and tireless. Which meant she needed a way to take this chase off the ground. She took the corners without slowing, hurling herself at and off the walls to keep her lead time, judging her advantage by the sounds of footsteps and objections behind her.

Inej couldn't remember the last time she had this sort of fun.

She paused at the top of the stairs, looking down the hallway. She was controlling her breathing too carefully to genuinely laugh, but there was a carefree grin on her face that made her eyes sparkle. It turned to a winner's smirk when Jesper came around the corner.

She gave him until halfway down the hallway, which was when Wylan stumbled into the hallway as well, red-faced but giving the game his best effort. Then Inej hopped on the bannister and slid down to the first floor.

Once more turning to gloat, she saw a significant piece of her advantage slip away as Jesper leapt over the rail halfway down and headed full-tilt at her. She turned, ready to run—and crashed into a maid, sending a basket of laundry flying.

A moment later, Jesper skidded to a halt a few feet away.

"I'm sorry, miss," the maid said, a wince in her voice.

"Please don't be."

How had she bumped into someone? But she knew. She had been playing, focused on the game, not the placement of her feet on the solid ground.

Which is when Wylan arrived, out of breath.

"Is everyone… okay?"

"I'm so sorry, I didn't see your friends there, Mister Wylan."

Wylan waved off the apology. "Don't be," he said, puffed for a moment, then, "We weren't… paying attention."

"You're in terrible shape," Inej muttered.

"My ribs are bruised," was Wylan's retort.

The three of them helped pick up the fallen laundry, earning surprised looks from the maid—this wasn't how merchants and their guests were meant to behave themselves. Whether it was the rowdy game or helping pick up the laundry, she wasn't sure. Both, probably.

Wylan cleared his throat and gave Inej a meaningful look.

"I apologize," she told the maid. Inej had been the one to crash into her. "So does Jesper."

"What? Why does Jesper?" Jesper said.

"You were chasing me."

"You were running!"

Wylan gave him that same look.

"I apologize, too."

Wylan nodded, then scooped something up from the floor—his father's lapel pin that they had been using for a game of keep-away.

"Doesn't count as winning, Coppercurls," Jesper said, reaching out to tweak one of those curls.

"Feels like it," Wylan retorted, grinning. "Everything's all right, isn't it, Jette?"

"Y-yes," the maid—Jette—replied. "Thank you for asking. I should take the wash."

"I'm sorry we delayed you."

Once she had gone, he looked between his friends and told them: "Honestly, you are guests!" Then he burst out laughing, one hand going to his bruised ribs and the other to his pocket because this would be an excellent time to retrieve the lapel pin, if Inej were so inclined.

Jesper looked to Inej, then grabbed Wylan by the waist and tossed him over his shoulder.

"Hey!" Wylan objected. "Cheater!"

"Inej, get the pin!"

"Let me go!"

"Get the pin!"

Inej wasn't entirely sure how it happened. She went for the pin. Wylan jerked against Jesper's hold, successfully freeing himself and crashing into Inej, both of them falling against Jesper, and suddenly they were all three of them in a giggling tangle on the floor.

Jesper said, "Oww."

Inej gave his knee a gentle punch. "Get off me."

"Don't tell Kaz you had to say that."

"Inej?" Wylan asked, when the majority of the laughter had died down.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry I didn't prioritize the indentured Grisha."

"I'm sorry for the way I spoke to you about it."

She didn't regret raising the subject. Wylan didn't know what he was doing running a merchant house and that wasn't his fault, but someone needed to give him pointers. She did regret mentioning his father that way. They were nothing alike. She had told him that once before.

"Shake hands," Jesper told them.

Wylan had to extract a hand from the mix of limbs and bruises, but after a moment, he offered Inej a handshake. She accepted.

"Good. I'm proud of you both. This would be an excellent time to celebrate with waffles."

They didn't.

They celebrated by extracting themselves from one another and going back to the office to look for the papers of indenture. She noticed Wylan holding his side as they went. Glutton. He'd never had friends before and didn't know how to moderate play to what his body could handle, how to stop when he hurt.

When she had been here last, lifting the DeKappel with Kaz, Inej was focused on accessing the office and taking the painting. She had given little thought to the paperwork. She and Jesper waded through it while Wylan stood by the window, fiddling with the lapel pin.

There was probably sense to the filing system, in Van Eck's mind, but Inej didn't see it. He kept a book of tidily scripted notes, all dated and chronological; his most recent bills of lading; one ledger was dedicated to mediks' reports about Alys's pregnancy.

"Merchling," Jesper said, and motioned him over.

Inej peered at the paperwork in front of him. It didn't seem the most relevant to her, an account of a ship that recently went down, but maybe he saw something she didn't. Sitting still did not suit Jesper and he was standing at the desk for now, his papers nearly upside down from Inej's perspective.

Wylan jammed his hands in his pockets and came over.

"Did you find them?" he asked.

Jesper wrapped an arm around him. "No, but you were sad over there and now you're here with me."

"'With you' is the opposite of sad." Wylan sounded like he had been trying to tell a joke but accidentally said the truth.

Inej focused hard on the papers in front of her. She wasn't sure when these two had shifted from growling and retorts to saying things like that to each other. Wylan and Jesper were starting to sound like Nina and Matthias—a thought that struck hard.

When they still hadn't tracked down the papers and the morning was nearly worn away, Wylan excused himself: "Inej, I have to see my mother."

"I understand."

She truly did. She would give anything for that chance and did not fault Wylan for leaving the search for the Grisha indenture papers—especially as he was unable to help. It would probably more productive without the distractions, anyway. She had learned a good deal about the Van Eck shipping empire, because it seemed like every few minutes Jesper had another question about something unrelated to the indentures.

"I'll go with you," Jesper said.

"You don't have to do that."

"I know," Jesper agreed, "that's what makes me so perfect."

It wasn't an uncommon sentiment from Jesper, but between his tone and the rush of blood to Wylan's face, Inej knew it was a joke between the two of them now.

"Part of it," Wylan said. Turning to Inej, "Do you have plans for the afternoon?"

She didn't, so Jesper wrote a letter to Cornelis Smeet asking for copies of the Grisha indenture papers. He was sure to have them. It was a task Inej was pleased to take on. Wylan wasn't a part of the slaving industry, but the concept of indentures still sat badly with her.

Ketterdam was quiet that day.

Fear of the plague kept anyone who could afford it indoors. The Barrel would be teeming less than usual, but still busy, Inej knew. Her mind went to Kaz. He would be planning something, he always was. Something new. Building something to burn. A part of her thought leadership of the Dregs had been his end goal. A bigger part knew better. Kaz never ran a single game at once.

Inej walked rather than climbed, because she could. What a nice reason to do something: because I can. She had not abandoned common sense, of course. She carried her Saints with her, the Saints in whom she placed her faith and the metal Saints for more practical situations.

At first, she wasn't certain why today felt so different. Relief, maybe? The past weeks had been mad ones. Or was it just the difference?

No, she realized. She was on this errand because Wylan had asked. They were working together to figure things out. In fact, this had been her idea.

It was the first day Inej Ghafa walked the streets of Ketterdam without carrying a debt.


	6. Return to Saint Hilde

"Mama."

Marya was still restrained, but disengaged today. Wylan reached for her hand. The soft wrappings had not prevented bruises from forming on her wrists, and he noted to himself that he needed to speak with the nurses before leaving. He understood she might be a danger to herself, but being in bed for days at a time carried its own risks.

His fingers brushed Marya's, and his heart stung when she pulled her hand away, but he didn't reach out again. If she didn't want him holding her hand, he wouldn't.

"It's Wylan again. I'm sorry things went so badly yesterday, I…" What? What could he say? How much could he explain? "I didn't mean to upset you. I'm sorry I didn't come before, that it took me so long to grow up."

He should have figured this out a long time ago. Why didn't he come looking for his mother's grave? He never stopped missing her. Her 'death', her absence never stopped hurting. Why had he not come to find her?

Of course Wylan knew. He had mentioned it a few times when he was younger, but his father said no. Before he was "sent to study music in Belendt", Wylan never would have defied his father. He skirted the rules sometimes, would do things he knew he wasn't supposed to do but hadn't been forbidden from, but did not defy. Looking for, let alone visiting Marya's grave would have been defiance.

For all the good that did her now.

Wylan sat in a chair beside her bed, watching Marya as she stared away from him, at the window. He looked, he thought, a little closer to the son she would remember. He had genuinely tried to comb his hair, and his clothes fit less poorly. His flute was out rather than stored in its case. There was nothing he could do about the fact that he was bruised and scrawny and still forgot sometimes to take his eyes off his feet, but he was trying. And… then there was his satchel. For months he barely went anywhere without it. Yesterday had dented his courage enough that Wylan once more felt it was better having it near, so it rested at his feet, the strap looped around his knee.

None of which seemed to matter to Marya, since she kept her attention fixed on the window. She did not want to see Wylan.

He stayed anyway.

"Why won't you so much as look at me?"

He knew his father had been disappointed, and then disgusted by him, and he knew why. Even when they would argue about him, though, Wylan didn't recall his mother ever seeming disappointed.

Maybe he was misremembering. He had been young.

It hurt.

"Because," Marya said, her voice low, "you are not my son."

Well that hit like a frying pan, a sudden, dull thwack of pain across his chest.

"I am your son."

"You're a monster."

Wylan swallowed painfully. Not her, too. His mind whirred, making vows to Ghezen: he would be dutiful, he would tithe every week, he wouldn't use the office as a place to play games or think inappropriate thoughts. He could only try on that last one and it wouldn't be easy working with Jesper—easy, or fair, everything about Jesper being so perfect—but he would try.

"Whatever I did," Wylan said, picking his words carefully, "tell me how to make it up to you."

He would do anything.

"Coming here," she muttered, "pretending to be him. My Wylan is dead."

His eyes widened. Dead? What must Jan have told her? It must have come from him. Maybe he had come to taunt her when he paid to have Wylan killed. That seemed especially cruel, as Marya could shout the crime to anyone in earshot and no one would listen. Not to a mad woman.

I'm so sorry.

If he visited before, would Jan maybe have been impressed? Thought there was something of value in Wylan? Jan could appreciate spirit. "Spirited" was a positive observation at Caryeva, maybe if Wylan had… but he hadn't, had he? He hadn't done much of anything for most of his life.

"I'm not dead."

"You're not my Wylan."

"We used to paint together. You played the piano."

Marya said nothing.

That didn't prove much, Wylan realized. He could have been anyone off of Geldstraat and known those things.

He looked at her hand on the blanket. He supposed it looked familiar, but wished he had spent more time as a child memorizing everything about her. That she might die hadn't occurred to him. What eight-year-old expected their mother to die? Or to be taken from them?

"We played a game in church," he said, trying to recall exactly. "We took turns picking the word for that day, and every time we heard it we would race to be the first to squeeze each other's hands. You weren't pious like… like he was." Their game made church services less boring, while simultaneously encouraging Wylan to pay better attention.

He tried to remember now, tried to find more in his memory that might help prove himself. These were the sorts of memories that followed a sick churn in his stomach, memories of things he had lost and times he spent as an innocent, dumb kid who didn't know anything about anything.

"There was a sweet shop."

Vaguely he remembered. He had been small—five? Six? Less?

"We would go to the university to eat ice cream and look at the Boeksplein." 'Supposed to' scarcely entered his mind at the time. Was the place meant for students? Yes. Did that stop Marya Van Eck from taking her son to look at the gargoyles? It did not. "I was frightened the first time. The monsters. I—got ice cream on your gown," which was embarrassing to admit to now, "but you said it was okay. You told me they were good monsters."

Marya turned her head away from the window to scrutinize the boy in front of her. Wylan wanted to shrink, afraid of what she might see. Afraid she might not recognize him. Afraid, worse, that she might, and reject him anyway.

Barely above a whisper, he said, "We stopped going to the Boeksplein because of me."

Her fingers were cold when they closed tight around his.

"Wylan."

He nodded. "Yes."

"My Wylan."

"Yes. I'm so sorry I didn't come before. I'm sorry."

He wanted to tell her everything. He wanted to tell her about his adventures in Fjerda (even though he knew it was better he didn't, since everyone would take it as more sign of madness if Marya Hendriks started saying her dead son and his friends stole a tank and blew a hole in the Ice Court). He wanted to tell her that he played the flute and the piano and was clever with maths and engineering even if he still couldn't, you know.

He wanted to tell her about Jesper.

"You're here," Marya observed, tears filling her eyes.

"I'm here," Wylan confirmed.

He wanted to tell her everything, but he didn't know if she was there to hear it.

But for now, she knew his name.

It was enough.

Wylan would have stayed for hours with his mother, he was so happy to see her looking more aware, to see the recognition in her eyes. It was clear, too, that her mind was no longer fully intact, but she was improving already. She would get better. She knew his name.

He left because a nurse chirpily asked him to leave, explaining it was time for them to get Marya cleaned up. He winced internally to hear his mother discussed like a child, but knew this wasn't the time to argue.

"I'll come back tomorrow, Mama," Wylan said. He kissed her hand. "I love you."

It felt like something tearing loose inside him. How long had he wanted to tell his mother that just one more time?

She smiled at him. "I love you, my Wylan."

Wylan couldn't remember the last time someone said they loved him. He didn't know who he wanted to hear it from more. For a moment he held on to her hand, not wanting to let this moment end, but the pleasant nurse cleared her throat and he remembered that it was time.

He would be back tomorrow.

He hoped she would still love him then.

They had agreed that Jesper would wait in the parlor, both so Wylan could have time alone with his mother and in case seeing Jesper, who had previously claimed to work for Smeet, might upset her. He was there. He was there beside a vase of flowers with half-shredded petals giving his revolvers a twirl, an activity he completed with a flourish when he spotted Wylan.

Beautiful show-off.

"How did it go?"

Wylan smiled. "She knew me."

My mama loves me.

He was too old for that thought, but it still warmed him through.

Jesper smiled back.

"There's something I'd like to clear up before we go. You don't have to come with me."

"You know me better than that, coppercurls," Jesper replied. Leaning close enough that no one would overhear, "I'll always come for you."

Wylan knew he was supposed to blush. Jesper was using his suggestive tone, and the feeling of his breath brushing against Wylan's ear prompted a hint of pink.

Jesper searched Wylan's face, and Wylan saw the moment when he reached the conclusion that Wylan just didn't know what Jesper was talking about.

"All the Saints and your Aunt Eva."

"I don't have an Aunt Eva," Wylan grumbled.

He needed to speak with someone in authority here. He did not, as his father would have done, demand an immediate meeting, but he made clear he expected one. Today.

They met with the same man who had tried to dissuade Wylan yesterday from seeing his mother. He invited Wylan and Jesper to have a seat in his office and, facing them across the desk, said, "Did you have further questions about your mother's condition?"

"Yes," Wylan said, "who told her I was dead?"

Jesper was surprised, but the administrator sadly shook his head.

"I didn't agree with that decision," he said. "Some years ago, Councilman Van Eck asked that to help her live peacefully and to protect you, she be told you had passed on."

"Why? How would that help her? How would it protect me?"

"When she first arrived, she was deeply agitated at being separated from her son—from you. She made multiple attempts to leave the facility, in one incident injuring herself. As for your safety, surely you've seen by now that your mother is mad."

Wylan's expression was controlled, but he clutched his own hands tightly as he imagined his mother trying to find him. Had she known what Jan was? No, silly question—of course she had, he had institutionalized her. At the same time: when he was alone, mourning, and silenced, someone had loved him. Someone wanted to help him.

He hurt to think of what Marya went through, but he was touched by it, too.

"She's not mad."

"Mister Van Eck, she may have had a good day but I've done this work longer than you've been alive. She will have good days, but it doesn't last."

"It will," Wylan insisted.

She wasn't mad. She was lost—and he would help her find herself. All that time she spent trying to protect him. It was Wylan's turn.

For the first time, he left Saint Hilde feeling hopeful. As he and Jesper walked back toward the boat, he enjoyed it. Where they were, what they were doing. Who he was with.

"Are you sure you want to head right back?" Wylan asked. "We could… do something exciting."

"The only exciting thing to do out here is me."

Wylan supposed he had the idea that there was more fun to be had out here than back at Geldstraat. Maybe something to distract Jesper—he was probably bored halfway out of his skull by now.

He didn't reply to that, though. He was too busy blushing.

A few minutes later and in a more serious tone, Jesper asked, "Wy, are you okay?"

Wylan nodded.

"I'm here if you're not."

"Thank you." Really—it meant a lot, not only that he was here but that he had offered to come. "But this is one of the happiest days I've had in… years. You're here. My mother is getting better. She… she said she loves me."

Someone loved him. He didn't recall whether Jan had stopped saying it or never said it to begin with. He thought he recalled his father saying he loved him, but—had he said it? Meant it?

Hearing that his mother loved him meant more than Wylan knew how to put into words and a fragile, fluttering feeling sparked in him. My mama loves me. He wouldn't have been surprised if Jesper made a joke about it, but didn't expect he would. Wylan had seen Jesper with his father. He knew Jesper understood the importance of parents. And love.

Jesper didn't say anything. He reached out to take Wylan's hand and they walked back to the dock together.

"Jes," Wylan said, keeping his voice low as they waited for the boat back to Ketterdam.

"I'm right here. It's difficult to lose me."

"Wouldn't know. I've never tried."

That wasn't strictly true. Before the Ice Court, before he saw another side of Jesper, Wylan found him attractive but extremely annoying. He had tried to avoid seeing Jesper sometimes. It was strange to think about, how differently he saw Jesper just a few weeks ago.

"I know what he did was despicable, but hating him won't make her better."

* * *

It was because of his mother that Wylan went to the kitchen that afternoon.

"May I interrupt your work for a moment, Miss Molenaar?"

He supposed the cook couldn't say no, but he wasn't certain who else to ask. She had been around for as long as Wylan could remember and had always been kind to him, limited though their interactions were.

"Yes, but you might've rung if you're hungry."

"I'm not hungry," Wylan said.

His stomach disagreed vocally.

Maybe he was hungry because he was at an always-growing age; maybe he was hungry because looking at the braids of garlic and bundles of herbs reminded him that food existed, and his body had forgotten how to take that for granted. Whatever the reason, before he could insist that he really wasn't, there was a glass of milk and a plate of buns in front of him.

"Thank you." He took a bite and realized—"These were my favorite." He hadn't eaten them in ages, but they tasted exactly the way he remembered, beaded with raisins and glazed with honey.

The first 'thank you' had been good manners.

This was a softer and more specific, "Thank you, Miss Molenaar."

"You're welcome, Mister Wylan. Now. What did you need?"

"Need? Um—yes." Distracting pastries. "I wanted to ask if you remembered much about my mother."

"The first Mrs. Van Eck—yes, I remember her. What did you want to know about her?"

"Anything, really. What she was like." Wylan fiddled with the glass of milk, swiping beads of condensation off the side.

"She loved you."

She still loves me.

"Mrs. Van Eck was… she was happy. She was quick with a joke. She liked to dance. Everyone loved her."

Wylan nodded, but there was a catch, something he heard in her voice. As he tried to put the question into words, Wylan heard a steady sound. He realized as he had been absorbed in speaking with Miss Molenaar, someone else had come into the kitchen. He glanced over.

"He doesn't—"

"He doesn't work here," the cook confirmed. The boy couldn't have been more than seven, if that, far too young to be working anywhere. Yet there he was, rolling a ball against the wall. "This is my nephew, Gavrie. He doesn't have anywhere else—the city's half shut from the plague. He's no harm."

"Of course not. Hello, Gavrie."

Gavrie gave a shy wave, but it wasn't hard to see where his attention really was. Wylan offered him a bun. The child smiled and grabbed it, then retreated.

"Thank you," Miss Molenaar supplied. Gavrie didn't look up from the bun. "My sister was… he was born in Ravka."

Wylan understood. If Miss Molenaar's sister was in Ravka and there was something she didn't want to say, her sister was probably Grisha. He heard rumors about what had happened during the civil war. A child living through that…

"He's lucky to have you caring for him," Wylan said.

There was something deeper in the look on her face, but Wylan couldn't discern what it was.

In a suddenly busier, more pragmatic tone, Miss Molenaar said, "Go on, drink up. You're a growing boy."

Wylan obediently picked up his glass and gulped the milk before he realized the conversation had been shut down and he didn't know why.


	7. The Grisha Indentures

"I read them," Inej told Jesper and Wylan when they met up in the library. She had been pleasantly surprised to find a nautical book with a chapter on knot-tying; practice knots tied in twine littered the table in front of her. The indenture papers were on the table, too.

Jesper picked up one of the contracts, sliding a couple of sheet bends off it. "They're the same?"

"The values vary, but they're mostly identical. With the Transfer of Authority signed and returned now, Wylan can void them if he wants to." Inej glanced at Wylan, waiting for his reaction.

"I'm not going to do that," Wylan replied softly. He met her gaze, but without any challenge in his eyes. "I know you don't like it, Inej, but there are advantages to indentures. They're safe here. If I void the contracts without asking what they want, how am I any better than my father?"

Maybe. Inej doubted Jan Van Eck's indentures were obtained the way Tante Heleen purchased her indenture, but even so, these people had all but traded over their freedom. She had seen previous papers at Smeet's, enough to realize the indentures were designed to make squirreling anything away difficult—so that when an indenture ended, sometimes the only option someone had was to re-indenture.

"Those rates are very high," Wylan said.

Inej remembered the numbers on her own papers of indenture. Comparatively, she had been cheap. The price of a human being wasn't something she often thought about, so learning those numbers were high surprised her. Was it anything against the cost to a soul?

"What were those dates again?" Wylan asked.

Jesper read them off.

Wylan took a breath and blew it out in a way that told Inej he had done the math, as well. He sighed, shook his head.

"What am I missing here?" Jesper asked.

"The war in Ravka," Inej said.

"Son of a bitch."

Wylan nodded. "Basically."

What better time to sweep a Grisha into a cost-efficient indenture than when they were fleeing a civil war and uncertain there was any safe place for them? Shu Han meant being cut open. Fjerda meant being burned to death. Novyi Zem and the Southern Colonies were safer, but expensive to reach.

"You are not your father, Wylan." Inej could see his thoughts turning that direction. He had benefitted from Jan Van Eck's Ghezen-sanctioned exploitative behavior, but he was trying to put it right.

"He's a bad person. This... this is practically blasphemy!"

"You take after your mother," Jesper said.

"I'll be with you when you speak with them," Inej reminded Wylan.

He nodded.

"I'll be there, too. Working in my official capacity as Mister Van Eck's secretary."

"I can't make him stop saying that."

Inej wasn't surprised: "You can't make Jesper stop saying anything."

"True," Jesper agreed with a sage nod.

Inej remembered—couldn't stop herself from remembering—what Van Eck had done to her. She remembered the days and nights in that dark room, being coaxed and cajoled into speaking, the horrible coldness in his eyes. She remembered the casual way he had smacked Bajan. Bajan was weak, an accomplice afraid to do the work himself, but that did not change how brutally efficient Van Eck's use of violence was.

He would hate Jesper. He would hate him for being loud, for being funny, for the clothes he wore and the constant way he smiled. He would hate the relaxed, casual, boisterous way he continued being himself even here, and Inej loved him for it. Nothing could push away the specter of that man quite like Jesper, simply by refusing to conform to the heaviness of expectations that weighted the air in this house.

"Of course, Wy…"

Wylan's eyes had gone distant. He was too still, gripping the arms of his chair so hard his knuckles were going white.

Jesper trailed a fingertip up his arm, a ghost of touch as he concluded, "…you could try to make me."

Well, his eyes were present now, wide as a blush crept up his face. Wylan stammered half-syllables while Jesper grinned shamelessly. It was after too long of a pause to be a true retort that a red-faced Wylan squeaked, "M-maybe later."

Inej couldn't remember the last time she'd seen a look of such utter delight on Jesper's face. It wasn't the adrenaline-fueled giddiness after a good brawl, nor the gleam when Kaz first told him about the Ice Court job. This awkward little mercher boy's failed attempt at flirting made Jesper happier than four million kruge.

Wylan dropped his face into his hands. He was laughing, red as a strawberry, and seemed to genuinely mean it as he said, "I'm sorry, Inej!"

She wasn't as entertained as Jesper, but she was smiling nonetheless—at their happiness and ridiculousness and Wylan's utter hopelessness as a flirt.

"It's okay," Inej said.

Though it did postpone their going to speak with the Grisha until the blush was gone and Wylan had stopped biting his lips to keep from snickering. Jesper was no help. The little group was heading out of the library when he slung an arm across Wylan's shoulders and told him softly, "Definitely later."

Eventually—so long Inej had given both boys an unamused look to spur them on—they did make it to the Grisha workshop.

Wylan held the indentures of two Grisha. There had been a Tidemaker, but he was given jurda parem and did not survive. Now there was a Durast and a Healer left, neither much older than Inej.

She swallowed the pain at thinking about that. Their indentures had not been like hers, but still conjured memories that were painful to carry.

Wylan laid out the terms he could offer them: he understood his father had approached them when they were vulnerable and in need of help, if they wanted, he would void the contracts and help them return to Ravka. Inej gave a small nod of approval even as the Durast, Pyotr, scoffed.

"Back to Ravka?" he asked. "To fight another stupid war for another stupid king?"

He was the only person in the room past twenty, and seemed keenly aware of it. The look he gave Wylan was at best derisive; he held himself proudly and had probably struggled enough being indentured to a grown man. No wonder his pride smarted—but Inej had spent enough time in the Dregs to know a boy could be a better leader than a man.

She was surprised at how keenly the thought made her miss Kaz. She had seen him just days ago. It felt like longer.

"Where would you like to go?" Wylan asked.

He scoffed at the question. Delightful, Inej thought. This one must have had loads of fun working for Jan.

"I'll stay," said the Healer.

"Sveta," Pyotr said. What he said next was in Ravkan, and Inej understood it was meant to be private. She understood his words, too, but said nothing. It was better for people to have that comfort, believing they had privacy, and she meant them no ill will.

"I do not want to go home either," Sveta said, picking her words carefully. "I only like being Grisha because I have friends. Now only Pyotr. We lost Mikka. I want to live. In the Little Palace…"

They had heard rumors of what happened during the civil war. The massacre at the Little Palace was the stuff of grisly whispers. Inej wondered if Sveta thought about it the way she thought about the Menagerie. If she ever imagined it burning to the ground.

"You can stay," Wylan agreed.

Pyotr tried again, and again Sveta argued in Kerch: "Nowhere is safe. Slavers get you everywhere."

Inej knew how true that was, and would admit that there was a degree of safety on Geldstraat. She and Kaz had been able to break in, but she and Kaz were the best in the business, and the Van Eck mansion was now home to someone with a basic knowledge of how criminals worked.

"These people killed Mikka! They killed Anya!"

At the raised voice, Jesper stood up straighter from where he leaned against the wall. Inej didn't know what he thought he was going to do

"Not me," Wylan objected. "I had nothing to do with my father's… experiments."

"Where were you to stop him?"

"He wasn't here," Jesper drawled, sounding almost bored. "You were. He's not Grisha, either. You are. Seems to me you're more to blame."

"Do not—" Pyotr said.

At the same time, Inej said, "Jes," in a warning tone.

"What do you want, Pyotr?" Wylan asked.

Pyotr scowled for a moment, then he shrugged.

"Sveta," Jesper said, "Mister Van Eck has bruised ribs, can you fix that?"

She nodded. "Yes. It will be easy."

Jesper gave Wylan a meaningful look. Wylan cleared his throat and asked, "Can that be handled somewhere more private?"

Sveta showed Wylan into the next room, leaving Inej and Jesper with the sullen Durast. Inej took the time to study him. From what she knew of Ravka, Pyotr, as a Fabrikator, would not have had combat training. He looked like he could hold his own in a fight, anyway.

"I was indentured once," Inej told him. "I understand it's not—easy, but Wylan is nothing like his father. If you want to be released from your contract, he'll respect that."

Pyotr scowled. She suspected he did a lot of that.

"They're family, not the same man," Jesper added.

"He's not a man."

Somehow, that made perfect sense to Inej. She remembered how she felt when Kaz handed her the papers from her own indenture, paid in full. It had made perfect sense at the time. Wylan was only a bit younger, but the idea of him handing over her papers felt quite different.

Noticing a flash in Jesper's eyes, Inej gave him a tiny shake of her head. Jes was rash, but this was no situation for drawn guns and thrown fists, nor for sharp words, however well intended. He gave her a sheepish look and settled for stroking the handles of his revolvers. Whether that was meant to be intimidating or just a response to sitting still, she wasn't certain.

"Van Eck said we would be together when we signed the papers. He sold Anya's indenture first. She died. Then Mikka. Sveta stays, I stay."

Pyotr scowled once more, then stood and left the room.

"He's delightful," Jesper remarked.

Inej was inclined to agree. And she was surprised. She had not thought it possible to be more disgusted by Jan Van Eck.

She was surprised by how the discussion had gone. When she was in the Menagerie, Inej would have been suspicious and surprised if anyone offered her the chance to leave—anyone, not just a boy with an especially shady reputation. But she would have wanted it.

Maybe Sveta had a point. More than her Grisha powers made her vulnerable; she was a quite pretty girl. It was dangerous, to be a pretty girl. The Second Army gave Grisha a good life, from what Nina had said, but Nina was a patriot. Sveta sounded like she had cared more for her friends. Seeing them killed, it was no wonder she didn't want to go back to the Little Palace.

"Jesper."

"Where?" Jesper asked, making a show of looking around.

Inej gave him an exasperated but amused look.

"Don't keep her cooped up here. Help her find some friends."

He looked at her for a moment, saw that she wasn't just serious but deeply meant what she said, and nodded. Sveta had Pyotr, but her shrinking social circle oughtn't be capped at she knew one other person.

Wylan and Sveta returned a moment later.

"Thank you, Sveta."

She had fixed not only his ribs but the bruising on his face.

Looking at Jesper, Sveta said, "He has damage, too."

"Please fix it."

Sveta motioned for Jesper to follow her, but he shook his head. "Here's fine," he said, removing his shirt. Wylan looked away.

Inej thought about the showers at the Ice Court. How had Wylan managed? Inej had been nervous herself, even knowing what to expect it wasn't easy to undress around so many strangers. But she had been with Nina. Nina, who was her friend, who seemed untouched by nerves. Ooh, look, my nipples are at eye level. Inej had ducked her head and let the tremors in her shoulders seem like sobs to the Fjerdans while Nina knew she was laughing.

She guessed the boys hadn't had quite the same experience being jailed. The cell was dank and dirty, and they were surrounded by strangers who may well have been genuine criminals, but Nina may as well have been at home the way she carried on, pulling Inej into conversation.

Inej, if you won't talk to me, I'll sing.

You'll get yourself killed doing that, Inej had replied, a smile tugging at her lips despite herself.

She imagined Kaz and Jesper would have been much the same alone, but were probably less at ease with a grumpy bear and a skittish fawn in tow.

"That's much better," Jesper said.

Wylan glanced at him, then away again.

Inej threw his shirt at his head.

"Thank you, Inej," Jesper retorted. "It's okay, Wylan. You can look now."

"I apologize for thinking you might like privacy, Jesper, it won't happen again," Wylan said.

Inej heard his mistake even before Jesper acknowledged it: "I hope not."

"I apologize for my guests, Sveta," Wylan told the girl.

She didn't seem to mind.

After they left, Inej felt Wylan's attention drifting to her. She looked at him, but he looked away. She gave him a few more chances to say something. She wasn't surprised he didn't take them.

"Wylan?"

"I saw the books you had in the library," he explained. "You should use them."

A small pile of them. If Inej was being honest, she had fully intended if not to take them, at least to read them, but she hadn't wanted to flaunt it. Wylan couldn't use his own books.

She nodded.

"You're really serious about getting yourself a ship?" Jesper asked, falling back to join them. "And trying to avoid me? A man could be hurt!" he gasped, tossing an arm around each of their shoulders.

"Yes," Inej said, "and have you told Wylan about the time I climbed you?"

"You didn't," Wylan objected.

"I did," Inej said.

She hadn't precisely needed to—she could have scaled the wall—but…

"Like a squirrel," Jesper added. "All we needed to do was get through the back window at Judge Visser's country home, but we had counted on the painters' ladder being enough—this is hours outside the city."

"I know the place."

"I beg your pardon, merchling?"

"I've been to Judge Visser's country home. My mother and Mrs. Visser were friends."

Inej was intrigued by that—why hadn't Kaz tried to recruit a mercher's boy earlier? Maybe cultivated that relationship when he was still a respectable member of the household? They had needed to try to make Wylan useful in the Barrel. In his early days on Geldstraat, he would have been much better an asset.

She gave herself an internal shake. An idea to consider another time. Or not! Maybe she had spent too long in Kaz's company.

Unaware of her thoughts, Jesper replied, "Of course you have. Well, then you know there's nowhere nearby to get yourself a bigger ladder. So Inej told me to go up the ladder and see if I could reach the window. The next thing I know, there are these tiny hands grabbing hold of me—"

"I could reach the window from his shoulders."

"You stepped on my head."

"I could almost reach the window from his shoulders."


	8. Debts and Corrections

"I want you in my bed tonight."

Wylan's head snapped up, eyes wide. He squeaked desperate syllables for a moment before managing, "You didn't have to phrase it that way!"

"We both know I did," Jesper replied, grinning at Wylan's blush.

Same as last night, Wylan obligingly followed Jesper to the bedroom he already considered his, but this time he didn't pick up his nightshirt and ask Jesper to turn away so he could change. There was a look on his face—a question, something he was nervous to bring up.

Jesper waited.

Wylan reached into his pocket and took out—

"Bullets," Jesper observed. Wylan was no marksman, so those were for Jesper. "Kinky."

"It's not for that," Wylan said, pink.

Jesper had guessed as much. When should reality prevent a joke, though?

"Then you're no good at picking a romantic gift."

"I'll owe you a good one."

"You could have at least got me a whole box."

"I'll get you something new, that I didn't just take from the armory."

"You have an armory?"

"Yes. Well, the house guards have an armory. It's a little armory."

Jesper suspected he knew the reason, but there was so much hope shimmering in Wylan's eyes, he couldn't bring himself to just say, _No, and we're not going to discuss it._

Instead he took a breath and blew it out to buy himself some time and calm.

_Please explain the contents of your trousers._

That would have been funny. Jesper wished he'd said it earlier, when Wylan first showed him the bullets. Now too much time had passed.

"Why are the not-kinky, not-romantic bullets in our bedroom?"

"I thought maybe we—maybe you could try using your abilities."

Jesper would have criticized the selection, but bullets made the most sense. He had accepted that his zowa abilities likely were behind his skill as a sharpshooter. Not the only thing, he had practice and experience, but his abilities took him from good to extraordinary. He worked more with bullets than anything else.

He wondered if Wylan knew those bullets wouldn't fit his revolvers.

Anyone else and he might have asked questions. What was he supposed to do? What was this going to prove? Couldn't they just take their clothes off and make the other kind of magic?

But…

But Wylan was doing that annoying thing he did again, the one where he looked up at Jesper with so much hope and faith and his too-long hair falling over his eyes. It made Jesper feel like he had been entrusted with something really expensive. He remembered serving as Kaz's second—with Geels, other times as well, how he had hated handing over his revolvers. How he would put fear in the heart of anyone who held them, just to be sure. This, whatever it was, was entrusted to Jesper with no threat.

What? Trust? Plea? He didn't know, but he knew it worked.

He sighed.

"All right, but only because I forgot how much I liked your stupid face. Put them down."

Wylan set the bullets on the dressing table in the corner, near the razor, brush, and the rest of Jesper's shaving kit. They didn't spend enough time in here to clutter it with anything else.

Jesper motioned for Wylan to step away. "Stop distracting me. You're being beautiful while standing too close. Cheating."

"If you don't want to," Wylan began, blushing and trying to ignore it.

"I'm good with bullets, merchling, but what I do with them is kill people."

Wylan stepped back to the wall.

Jesper gave him a nod—thank you. He couldn't do this with Wylan close.

He focused on the bullets. Move the bullets. That was what he usually did. Well, not move, more like nudge, the 'move' came from the gunpowder. Jesper thought about the metal shavings he had moved at the Ice Court.

He held his hand a foot over the bullets, just getting a feeling for them. He felt the impurities in the metal, the completeness of each shape.

No one taught Jesper how to do this. When he was small, he had watched his ma, but mostly she made things do what they naturally did—boiled water, made the dough rise, the same as they naturally did but quicker. He had seen her separate out one thing from another, though, one sort of cell from another kind. It was similar to that, he supposed. Moving one cell apart. Moving one group of cells—

The bullets hit his palm with a dull thud. They moved too slowly to do damage; his staring was not because he thought he was in any danger. No… it was because he had just fabrikated bullets into his hand.

From his spot against the wall, Wylan applauded.

"I know, I'm amazing," Jesper agreed. "Didn't we have an agreement about you in my bed?"

Same as last night, Jesper promised not to look when Wylan changed. He thought about it—not about looking, he had promised, but what he might see if he did. He couldn't know Wylan was almost naked and not imagine freckled shoulders, a dust of hair trailing down, thighs smooth and pale as cream…

It had been a while. Jesper had an itch.

Jesper's instinct was to loop his gun belt around the bedpost so his revolvers were right there if he needed them, but he didn't know if Wylan would mind that. If it would remind him of… something else. Jesper had taken his share of hidings growing up, but always in a context of, I don't like doing this to you but it's to keep you safe. He imagined it had been different for Wylan, knowing how Jan Van Eck talked about his son. Probably a bit more, You're a failure and don't deserve to carry my name.

Jesper settled for putting his revolvers on the table by the bed. They were still close enough to reach in a heartbeat.

Wylan gave the door an uncomfortable look.

"He's not coming back," Jesper said.

He should, could have set the bullets aside, but he was curious about them now. He sat cross-legged under the covers, rolling the bullets idly in his lap.

"I know," Wylan said. Less than convincing.

"Anyway, if he did come back, he would be too busy disapproving of me to think about disapproving of you. He would disapprove of me, wouldn't he?"

"He… yes."

"Good," Jesper sighed. "I'd hate to think I lived a life that made the likes of Jan Van Eck nod their heads."

He made the bullets fly up into his hand again.

"You're good at that."

"It's not what I meant to do. Need more practice," he said, giving Wylan a 'you-told-me-so' grin.

Wylan's returning grin was admittedly less than shining. He had something else on his mind.

"It's not an uncommon name, you know. Van Eck. There are loads of us in Kerch—not all related, it doesn't have to mean him."

Jesper had not known that. He didn't think much about Kerch family names, family names at all. They meant something, yes, but family to him meant people, not words. Family meant his ma and da, not the fact that he was Jesper after his maternal grandfather, Llewellyn like all firstborn sons in his family, Fahey from his da. He never thought about the fact his ma was Aditi Hilli and his da was Colm Fahey beyond that being who they were. Those were… words. Only words.

He dropped the bullets into his lap again and this time tried to push them gently across the covers.

"I can give most of it back," Wylan said. "For the Grisha, too, I—I don't know how, maybe there is a way to make an indenture fair? I can't offer the same sort of protection just by employing someone, not the way I can for an indenture, but there has to be something I can do. And for my mama. The properties, the money—I can restore that. I can bring her home. It doesn't fix everything, it doesn't give her back the years, but I can bring her home. But I can't make her a Van Eck again."

"I don't think the name is the biggest issue."

"But it's hers, she's entitled to it. He didn't have the right—she should have everything given back to her."

"Her things would have been yours in time, you know."

"That's not the point."

"It is the point," Jesper insisted. His hand moved over his lap, directing the bullets. Slowly. "It is. She loves you."

Wylan sighed softly. "I'll be a good son to her," he said, "but I'm his son, too. I can't fix her name. I need to keep mine for the business. She looked for me, Jes. What don't I owe her?"

That was so Kerch.

"You don't owe her anything. You didn't steal from her."

He said the words with a pang. Jesper knew full well how it felt to steal from your own parents. The only difference was he had actually done it, told lies and run a game on his da to diminish his own debts.

"What was it like after she left? When you were little?"

Wylan went quiet for a moment. He shuffled his knees up to his chest. Jesper glanced at Wylan from the corner of his eye, but he continued rolling the bullets.

Then, "Worse. I missed her. He missed her, too. Even if it was his fault, it was hard for him. I think he really loved her. He tried to help. When I whined it was hard on him, and it was unseemly, and he corrected me. I needed to move on, too. She wasn't coming back."

"Sunshine… what exactly does 'corrected' mean?"

Wylan looked away. "I shouldn't have said anything."

Softly, Jesper asked, "Did he hit you?" He had stopped rolling the bullets now.

Wylan began to gnaw at his thumb, then caught himself and stopped. He closed his fingers around his thumb, like a fist made by someone who had never in their life thrown a punch.

Help. He had said that. He tried to help. Jan Van Eck's "help" left his son this way, ashamed and afraid. It gave Jesper a cold, sick feeling.

"I needed guidance. He saw how caught up I was in grief. It wasn't healthy. It was distracting me from my lessons."

So he struck a child for mourning his mother because it led to low marks. Of course he did.

Jesper scooped up the bullets. He set them down beside the revolvers they didn't fit. He wanted to say that Jan Van Eck was a sick bastard. Most people who slapped children were sick bastards, but the way Wylan described it, Jesper knew he would defend his father. He didn't have it in him to explain why that was wrong.

"Da always held me when I was upset after my mother died," Jesper said. He laid down under the covers, like he was going to sleep. He would, soon. Eventually. "I cried a lot. It felt like I cried all the time. He cried, too. Even years later. When I was thirteen, I remember looking at the blooming jurda like I had never seen it before, and I don't know why but it made me think of her. I sat down in the field and cried. Da didn't even ask. We had work to do but it didn't matter. He sat beside me and held me until I was finished."

He had never mentioned that to anyone. It was private. It was also rarely relevant, and right now, talking about his da brought a familiar tight feeling to the back of his throat. Jesper wished Wylan had spent more time with Colm. Maybe they could go to Novyi Zem together… maybe Wylan could see what sort of father a real man was, someone who loved his son no matter his missteps, someone who loved his wife and knew grieving made him human, not weak. Jesper knew grief had torn at Colm. At the time, he didn't understand, but he knew it now. The memories carried even more meaning in the knowing.

He was also beginning to realize how much of being with Wylan meant teaching him.

_This is how a good man raises his son._

Until Wylan could spend time with Colm, Jesper would talk about him. It hurt, but he would talk. It was what he did best. Second-best.

_This is how a good husband loves his spouse._

Meaning Colm, of course. But Wylan needed to understand that, too, for his mother, what she should have had.

_This is how to remember you matter._

It would take being told every day for a while.

_This is how someone who loves you should put their hands on you._

Gently. Lingering. Remembering how easily his skin took to a bruise and giving him time to feel the warmth of another human being.

"I'm sorry you lost her, Jes. You deserve… she deserved to watch you grow up."

Jesper's response was a derisive snort. "There's plenty it's better she missed."

It actually hurt more to say than he had realized anything could. All those years he hid what he was. The fights he had enjoyed, every losing hand of cards… the tattoos. Jesper liked his tattoos, but he doubted his mother would have approved, especially of the crow and cup.

"Okay," Wylan agreed, which stung, until he continued, "she probably wouldn't have wanted to hear you flirting with everything on two legs."

"Shut up, you like my flirting."

"I'm not your mother. But yes, I do. I like you, because you're brave and a good friend and funny. Are you happy here?"

"Yes."

"Then what else would she have wanted?"

Jesper stared at him for a moment. He took in the reality of Wylan, his sweet Wylan, who wanted what was best for everyone and had a new explanation every day for why he deserved to be hit, arguing that all Jesper's ma would have wanted was for him to be happy.

"Hey."

Once he had Wylan's attention, Jesper motioned him over. Wylan turned out the lamp. In the dark, Jesper felt the bed shift and heard the rustle of sheets as Wylan laid down and scooted closer.

Memories were stirring again. His mother's face, her voice, the bright she brought into every room. It brought an ache that started to drown itself in the echo of Makker's Wheel. He loved her, still loved her. He just didn't want to hurt.

Jesper reached for Wylan and grabbed an elbow, slid his hand to Wylan's back and nudged him nearer. All he needed was the slightest suggestion. Wylan nestled his head close to Jesper's shoulder and, knowing it was odd and not caring, Jesper inhaled the scent of Wylan. He needed something to wash away the bad feelings. Needed to drown in him.

After a moment, Jesper said, "Do you remember what we were talking about last night?"

"We—oh."

He remembered.

"You really don't need to prove—"

"No, I said I would—"

"And I trust you! I believe you!"

"It's important to me, Wy, I need you to know I won't disappoint you."

"That is the one thing you are not capable of."

"Thank you. But I made a claim, I should prove it."

"That's not necessary."

"Okay," Jesper ceded. "Okay, I won't… if you say one of your profanity words."

He would swear he felt Wylan gasp.

"I… but they…"

"Just one word."

Wylan squirmed. "F…"

"Ooh, starting big!"

A soft whimper. "Sh…"

"You can do it."

"Ghezen's—"

"A real one, not a religious one."

"F… no, I can't," Wylan said, defeated. "I can't. Go ahead."

Jesper grinned… and began listing euphemisms. He did indeed have an impressive vocabulary. He recited euphemisms until Wylan began to shake, until he gave up fighting and laughed.


	9. Meeting the Parent Again

The next time Wylan saw Marya, she was painting. He suppressed a wince at the bruises on her wrists. She was out of bed, that was what mattered most. She was doing better.

"You have a visitor, Marya," the nurse chirped.

She looked up from her painting. As soon as she saw Wylan, she recognized him and smiled. "My Wylan."

It was a simple thing, for someone's mother to recognize them and hug them, but to Wylan it was everything. He held her tightly.

"It's good to see you again."

He would have asked what she was painting, but he knew.

"Is that the lake house?"

"It is," Marya confirmed.

The boy in front of it was Wylan. She was still painting him as a child. He wasn't sure what to think about that. It was easier not to think about, just like how he was going to explain about Alys. Hopefully her parents would decide on divorce before things became too complicated.

"Mama, are you feeling well today?"

"Much better," she said.

Wylan nodded. He wound his fingers together to keep from pulling at the loose thread on his cuff.

"Mama… I… Mama, please don't be upset."

He had serious reservations about telling her this; he was afraid if she became upset, they would restrain her again. But it had to be done sooner or later, and he hoped, he hoped so much, that she would understand.

"A few days ago, someone visited you from Cornelis Smeet, do you remember?"

Marya's jaw had gone tight. So had her grip on her paintbrush.

She remembered.

"That was—that was my friends. They lied to you. I'm sorry they lied. They don't work for Smeet, not at all, I couldn't come and I had to know that you were well. You spoke to my friend Kuwei, do you remember? The Shu boy?"

He couldn't tell the truth. It was too much—he couldn't. Since Kuwei was in Ravka and wouldn't need to confirm the story, Wylan reasoned it was a safe enough explanation. He hated lying to his mother, but… but what could he say?

Marya gave a slow nod.

"The other boy who visited was Zemeni, remember?"

She did.

"His name's Jesper. He…"

How exactly did one describe Jesper? That was the trouble, he was so much more than Wylan could put into words. He was a sparking bundle of life and love and cleverness wrapped up in beauty and bright plaid.

Marya met Wylan's eyes. She regarded him for a moment. Softly, she asked, "Is he good to you?"

"Yes." A shiver went through the word, fear and tension cracking as he realized that she knew. His mother had recognized not only him but something in him.

"People should be good to you."

His throat felt tight and raw, like he had just finished crying or was trying not to start. For so long Wylan hadn't heard from a parent that he was worth… anything. He was still getting used to the feeling.

"He is. He makes me smile every day."

They had only had a few normal days, but, whether he knew it or not, Jesper had been making Wylan smile since the Ice Court. Those nights on the Ferolind, when Kaz said visibility was low enough that Wylan could go and stand with Jesper a bit as long as he kept his mouth shut. Those nights had felt like they were saving his life sometimes. He knew Jesper was perplexed and a bit annoyed, but being close helped Wylan breathe—helped him forget about the strange face in the mirror, about the growing fears he harbored over seeing his father again.

The days on Black Veil, when a smile felt like a betrayal of Inej, Wylan knowing better than anyone how far from well she would be, and of Kaz, who was terrifying but clearly suffering too. But Jesper was irresistible.

"I'd like you to meet him. He's here today if you're ready—you don't have to."

He wanted her to meet Jesper, to approve of him, and there was a spark of fear that had Wylan's fingers so tightly wound together his knuckles were white.

Wylan had woken up from a nightmare early that morning. In his dream, Jan had talked his way out of incarceration and come home to find Wylan in bed with a farmer's son who couldn't walk away from a wager. In the dream, Jan had curled his lip in disgust before hauling Wylan out of bed and down the hall to the office, where the Merchant Council was waiting to confirm that Wylan couldn't read. The last thing he remembered was knowing the house guard had removed Jesper from the premises and Jan saying they were never going to see one another again before hurling Wylan to the ground.

He had no reason to believe his mother felt the same way as the bad dream of his father had, but he had no reason to believe she felt otherwise, either. Maybe she would meet Jesper and see that they were good for one another, the way Colm had. At the very least, it couldn't be worse than when Jesper met Jan... right?

Jesper had been so understanding about this, and Wylan couldn't have been happier than he was when he told Jesper that Marya wanted to meet him. That didn't stop him just about strangling Jesper's hand as they approached his mother. This moment was perfect. But what about the next one? He needed so badly for Marya and Jesper to like one another—they were the two most important people in his life. He didn't know what he would do if they didn't get along.

"Mama, this is Jesper. Jes, my mother, Marya Van Eck."

"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Van Eck," Jesper said, in what Wylan guessed was a copy of his own manners.

Marya looked him over, then said, "My son says you make him happy."

"Mama," Wylan objected weakly, pink flooding his cheeks. He hadn't counted on her repeating that. He was right there!

"I try," Jesper said. "He makes me happy, too."

"You're from Novyi Zem," Marya surmised, likely—Wylan reasoned—from Jesper's accent. Ketterdam was central to enough trade routes that being brown-skinned didn't always mean foreign-born.

"I came to Ketterdam to study at the university," Jesper said, "but I had to take a semester off for financial reasons."

That was both true and not true. Jesper had dropped out of university because of his troubles, which caused financial difficulties—but Wylan wasn't going to say anything. He appreciated Jesper being so direct about it.

Marya looked at her painting, then at Wylan, then said, "There isn't much to do here. They have cards."

"No!" Wylan blurted. They couldn't play cards—Jesper hadn't played a hand in weeks except Club Cumulus, and that had been awful. Some of it enforced by the Fjerda job, but there had been excitement there. Now he was in a quieter, less exciting life and Wylan hadn't figured out yet how to keep Jesper happy.

Judging from the looks they gave him, Jesper knew exactly what he meant, and Marya was unpleasantly puzzled.

"What if we go for a walk?" he suggested, trying to redirect everyone's attention.

"They don't like that," Marya said.

"Do you want to, though?"

"It would be nice. But they don't like that."

"Well—I'm paying, and I say we're going for a walk."

There was, as expected, some objection to the idea, but Wylan was resolved. The windows were nice, but they were no substitution for freedom and fresh air, and he knew his mother wasn't dangerous.

She wasn't always sensible, either. Most of what she said seemed logical enough, but occasionally she would comment on something they spotted, say something that Wylan didn't understand. She came back, though.

He wasn't sure what had happened when her mood took a downturn.

"Mama?"

She began to cry softly. Wylan was torn, and he hated being torn: between wanting to comfort her and fearing this would be spotted and they would think she was ill again. After a frozen second and a half, Jesper nudged Wylan's arm and offered him a handkerchief.

Thank you, Wylan mouthed.

"Mama, what is it? You can tell me," he said, offering her Jesper's handkerchief. He appreciated not only that Jesper happened to have a handkerchief, but that he let Wylan be the one to give it to Marya.

She shook her head, drying her eyes while she continued crying softly.

"Your birthday."

The words startled him. He had forgotten…

"Maybe we'll have you home by then," he said.

She nodded. "That would be nice."

"What do you think we should do?"

"We used to go to the harbor."

"We could go to the harbor again this year. Would you like that?"

Now that she mentioned it, Wylan thought he could remember that, watching the last rays of his birthday sunshine sinking over the horizon. He hadn't looked forward to birthdays for a long time. Even before his mother went away, birthdays had become a mark of his failure.

He still couldn't read.

He was 7 and he still couldn't read or write his own name. That was a bit behind schedule. It was time to get serious, wasn't it, Wylan?

He was 8 and he still couldn't read or write his own name. This was becoming an indication of something larger that was amiss with him.

He was 10 and he still couldn't read or write his own name. Double digits was quite serious, wasn't it? The end of the last lingering shreds of childhood. If ever he was going to show any capacity, this would be the time to do so.

He was 12 and he still couldn't read or write his own name. Should the depth of his failure escape him, he was becoming a man, wasn't he? (He had been sitting in his father's office, struggling not to squirm to hear the strange changes his body was going through referred to that way. Or at all.) Did he understand that part of being a man was creating children? (He had felt his face blistering.) Did he understand that he was unsuited to that endeavor, that his defect rendered him insufficient?

Wylan batted away the memories, instead focusing on his upcoming birthday. His mother would be home well before it, he promised himself, and they would do whatever she wanted. She had done the hard work after all. Carried him. Given him birth. He had just showed up and cried. It was her day really.

"Mama?" She hadn't responded. "We'll do anything you want for my birthday, anything, whatever makes you happy."

Gently, like she was breaking bad news to a child, "My sweet boy. No. Your papa will never allow it."

Wylan had stopped thinking of him as Papa years ago. He was Father. A biological fact. But he realized his mother hadn't known that, had never heard him call Jan by that name. Wylan had been too little when she left, too innocent.

He swallowed nervously. What he needed to tell his mother would be startling news. He hadn't mentioned it before—because he was afraid. What if she was too upset by it? What if he promised she could home and she couldn't? Now how to tell her mixed with another question: how to refer to the man.

"Pa…"

He couldn't.

He couldn't.

It was the name he used when he was still a stupid little kid who tried and tried to be a better son, when he thought he and… and that man were on the same side against bad circumstance and that he could be enough. When he thought he could be what brought back the papa who loved him, smiled at him, had a gentle hand and kind words. It hurt, remembering now, in a dull, broad sort of pain: once Wylan didn't realize he was the problem and believed he could be the solution.

"Jan is in prison."

Yes—that felt better.

"He entered negotiations in bad faith. I control the company now."

After everything Jan Van Eck had done, Wylan didn't like that he had been arrested for that, for bad faith negotiations. What about Inej? Wylan didn't know what happened, but he didn't have to know details. He understood his father. Why was a man allowed to kidnap her, to take someone so strong and wise and good, and to hurt them, and that wasn't as bad as bad faith negotiations? Why was he allowed to say his wife was mad, to take her land and money and void their marriage, and no one even spoke to her about it, and that wasn't as bad as bad faith negotiations?

Why hadn't he said it was Wylan? The question nipped at his heels. Why couldn't he have just told people Wylan died and sent him to this place instead? Why punish his mother?

"I know you're not mad," Wylan said. He promised. "I want you to come home. If that's what you want. Do you want to come home?"

She stared at him for a moment, then glanced around, furtive. Her eyes landed too long on Jesper, suspicious, and Wylan wished he didn't understand. The lie they told once would be hard to overcome.

Hesitant, she nodded.

Overall, Wylan thought it was a good visit. His mama mostly knew what was happening around her. She had recognized Wylan. They talked about the future and she believed it would be better, which left him newly resolved to ensure that it was. The very least he owed her was making good on that promise.

And yet…

And yet, as they walked back to the docks, Jesper was scowling and running his hands over his revolvers. Wylan registered his mood—was it because Marya was suspicious of him? He registered his hands and felt a brief flash of envy. Hands on his revolvers. Wylan would have preferred them on him—he was ashamed of the thought almost immediately.

"Jes, slow down."

He was walking too quickly, taking long, brisk strides that Wylan's shorter legs could only keep up with at a jog.

He didn't slow down.

"Jesper."

Jesper kept his pace, frowning at something in the middle distance. Wylan raised his hand to his mouth but caught himself before he bit his thumb again.

"Are you punishing me?" The words came out smaller than Wylan intended.

Jesper stopped and turned abruptly. It was an easy move for him, but Wylan had been at a different gait, and awkward. He tried to stop, but his heels skidded and he fell. The right thing to do was to pick himself up. Wylan was just… confused. He didn't understand the sudden shift like the way the sun was too much in his eyes now and blinked, trying to sort through it all.

Jesper's expression softened as he pulled Wylan out of the dirt.

"I'm not your father, Wy. I'm not going to hit you."

"I know," Wylan said, resettling his satchel.

"Normal people don't do that."

"I know. I was—the sun was in my eyes." And he had been on the ground, and Jesper was just so tall standing over him and it made him feel little and—it was the sun. The sun got in his eyes. He was at such a bad angle, looking almost straight up.

"And I wasn't going to lose my shirt gambling with your mother."

Oh.

"I know," Wylan said, "and I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said it that way. It isn't just about today though. I don't think someone… someone like you, someone…"

"Someone so perfect?" Jesper prompted. "So delightful? So handsome?"

Wylan laughed and shook his head, appreciative of the levity even if there was a note of bitterness in it. "But that's just it, Jes. You can't just be good, you're great. You can't be nice to look at, you're so handsome a man could go blind from it. I don't think it'll ever be just one hand of cards."

It was hard to say because he knew it would be hard for Jesper to hear—and for the same reason, it was necessary for Jesper to hear. Wylan felt he had neglected Jesper's needs the past few days. Everything going on with his mother and learning about the empire and the indentured Grisha, they had just been busy. It wasn't an excuse. It was something Wylan needed to recognize and amend.

Jesper sighed. "Maybe," he allowed. "I don't want to go down that road again, so why don't you tell me more about how handsome I am?"

"Well—let's start with your hands."

"My hands?"

"Mmm. You have great hands."

"Because they're so strong?"

"Partly."

"What do you mean, partly?"

"They're also warm. Calloused, but in a nice way, that emphasizes how gentle you can be. You are. Gentle, I mean, you're always gentle with me."

"I didn't know you were paying such close attention, merchling."

Wylan laughed. "Yes you did."

"I did," Jesper admitted. "Come on. Tell me something else about my hands."

"Are you sure? I can move on to your wrists if you like, or tell you more about those nice callouses."

"Nice, huh?"

Wylan looked around. No one but the two of them. He looked at Jesper briefly—his face, his hands—then the ground. Blushing and staring at the ground, he said, "They're sexy."


	10. Mutant Dance Conglomerate

Thanks to scillio for reviewing! The story is set before Inej is reunited with her parents.

* * *

Inej enjoyed a clear schedule. Every day, she woke up knowing she could do what she liked. She could stay in bed until noon, or eat a bag of toffees, or eat a bag of toffees in bed at noon—she missed Nina. She could stay up reading books from Wylan's library, knowing tomorrow didn't bring a job or a new threat.

There was a lot to like about the merch lifestyle, but her favorite part about it wasn't new. Her favorite part was the time with her friends. Things moved more slowly here. Time lingered. They lingered.

Tonight found the three of them in the music room yet again, a careful stack of dirty dishes on an end table.

She wasn't sure how they got to this subject, only that for some reason Jesper was saying:

"I'll learn to play the piano and you learn to dance the minuet."

"I know how to dance the minuet," Wylan told him.

"But you said—you lied," Jesper gasped. He turned to Inej. "This is Kaz's doing, he's thoroughly corrupted him."

Inej laughed.

"It wasn't a lie," Wylan objected, pink-faced. "I said no one danced the minuet, and they don't. I never said I didn't know how."

"Prove it, then."

Wylan wriggled awkwardly in his seat, then sighed, stood, and took a deep breath. He had gone from pink to pinker.

Inej sat up a little straighter, curious. She knew how to dance, a bit, but she knew the sorts of dances worked barefoot. She knew dances shared amongst groups, or the way her parents held each other and swayed to gentle notes.

"You have to imagine the music," Wylan said.

Jesper and Inej nodded.

"And I'll need your hat."

"Why?"

"Because… because your hair is pretty and I want to look at it," Wylan managed, his voice high. More his normal self he added, "And because an important part of the minuet is removing your hat."

Inej laughed before she could stop herself.

"I know but it shows proper manners," Wylan said.

Jesper surrendered his hat.

With a very proper bow, Wylan extended a single hand to Inej. She hadn't expected that. She took his hand, though, and let him help her to her feet. It gave her a strange feeling. Inej was not what anyone would call a lady. Jan Van Eck had made that perfectly clear, and anyone else on Geldstraat who knew of her former circumstances would agree. Kaz never looked down on her, but he didn't treat her with this measured elegance, either. It brought a light, strange feeling to her chest.

It's just play, she reminded herself, but she still felt like she had stepped into someone else's shoes. They were very comfortable shoes, but startling, different.

"When I offer you my hand, you'll take it lightly," Wylan instructed. "Not like we're holding hands. More like we're… flirting."

Inej nodded.

"Then just—follow my feet, okay?"

"I'll manage."

She could walk a tightrope suspended high above the ground. How hard could a dance be?

Wylan counted out the music: "One two three four five six seven eight one two three four…"

Which was strange at first, but Inej quickly came to see it as useful. The stressed notes helped make sense of the steps. They were not complicated, but took a few tries to manage, then to remember. She did not have the skirts she imagined were meant for this dance, something light and grand that lent itself to a graceful curtsy, but she wanted to play that role.

For once, Wylan was being a proper merchant, and Inej wanted to join in this act. So she pantomimed a skirt to match her curtsy.

She moved through the steps carefully, both of them slow at first, Wylan's pace matching hers.

"Good," he said.

Inej gave a low laugh. "I don't trip," she said.

"You're naturally graceful and a fast learner," Wylan replied.

As they circled one another slowly, she thought there was an appeal to this sort of thing. It was slow, steady, graceful. But that was not the part she so liked. She liked the feeling of her fingers on his skin, the light touch, the way he only just barely held her fingers in his. She imagined how this would feel with Kaz.

A silly thought, she knew. Even without his gloves, Kaz would never do something so silly and sentimental. She wouldn't have entirely minded the gloves, either. It wasn't only the skin touching that mattered but what she felt, how each of her partner's movements seemed channeled into little tics and nudges through his palm.

Kaz could…

Jesper cleared his throat. Inej didn't know when he had left his seat and come to stand beside her, but he was here now, beside her with a polite, "Excuse me, but I believe that's my merchling you've got your hands on."

Inej smiled. Of course Jesper needed to phrase it that way.

Wylan's blush returned with a vengeance.

"We can all dance," he suggested.

"Not the minuet. That's for couples," Inej observed.

Wylan gave her a small smile. "Only when you follow the rules."

It was ridiculous. Utterly, utterly ridiculous. They shared a bastardized minuet, cobbling steps together, gentle turns and light touches of hands. Despite the foolishness, however, there was still grace. Inej and Jesper both knew their own bodies and were fluid in motion. Usually Wylan wasn't, but he knew this dance. They used the basics to keep in time, to turn a couples dance into a group effort.

It felt… good.

It felt fun.

She felt strangely happy as part of this half-snickering mutant dance conglomerate and enjoyed the togetherness, even if she did laugh as hard as anyone after they had collapsed onto the settee, squeezed in together. Jesper was in the middle and Inej noticed Wylan dropping a gentle tap-tap-tap on his knee.

"What other skills are you keeping secret, then?" Jesper asked Wylan. "He did say he didn't play the piano," he told Inej.

"I didn't! I said I play the flute. I do play the flute."

She was starting to realize that he had something of a talent for deceptive honesty.

"No chance I was going to spend a month getting called a pianist."

"You deprived me—!" Jesper cried, indignant. "I feel betrayed."

Wylan shrugged. "Inej read my mail. Join the club."

"You knew about that?" Inej asked. She wasn't sorry. The girl she was two years ago might have been sorry—would have been sorry—but Inej understood the Barrel now. Having his mail read in trade for being kept safe? That was a small price to pay.

If anything, she was surprised Wylan hadn't mentioned it before, surprised he had figured that out.

"Not at first," Wylan said. "At first, I thought it was a coincidence his first letter arrived the day after I refused to help Kaz. Then I thought it… might be the hand of Ghezen, but I know it was you."

He didn't sound like he minded.

Inej considered pointing out that it wasn't like she or Kaz had understood, anyway. They thought Jan Van Eck wrote to entreat his son to return home. Since Wylan didn't sound resentful or bitter, though, she let it be.

"Does that make Inej the hand of Ghezen?" Jesper asked.

"Jesper," Wylan objected.

"Small hands for a god."

"Big enough to squish you," Inej retorted.

Jesper scoffed. "Try it," he challenged.

So Inej threw herself across his lap, feeling not at all sorry for landing so hard on his thighs. Jesper responded with a mix of an indignant shout and a bark of laughter. He wasn't squished. He waspushed a bit, and Wylan leapt to catch the plates before anything crashed to the ground.

"Why don't I take these to the kitchen," he suggested.

They all did little things like that, the sorts of chores that would have been second nature at home for Inej and Jesper. It wasn't how merchants behaved. Maybe it ought to be.

"Look, Inej, you've upset Wylan."

"I'm not upset," Wylan objected, "I just don't want the plates broken."

"But Inej took your seat," Jesper said.

Wylan froze, a deep red making its slow creep up his neck.

"I'll take the plates to the kitchen."

He was still wearing Jesper's hat and it made his ducked head look almost mournful. Inej knew he was only embarrassed.

Jesper tugged Inej's braid. "Get off me already, squishy."

"You're acknowledging I can squish you, then?"

"I'm acknowledging," Jesper ceded.

Inej hopped off his lap.

The mood had shifted somewhat with just the two of them here. Jesper was a friend, maybe the only friend Inej had left in Ketterdam. She wasn't sure how things stood with her and Kaz, and had a sort of nascent friendship with Wylan. Jes she knew, trusted.

Worried about.

"You seem happy," she said, settling beside him again.

"I am happy. I won't… there won't be an echo."

Inej gave him a tight smile—one that said she believed him, but recognized it would be a tough road to walk.

"Colm should be back in Novyi Zem soon."

"Another couple of days," Jesper said. Apparently he saw through the thin veil across Inej's thoughts, because he added, "And Nina in Ravka."

Inej nodded.

She would miss her friend. She did miss her friend. She missed chatting with her, missed the way Nina just understood, missed the way they laughed. And Nina… she would be in pain. Inej thought about all those days on the Ferolind when she was weak from blood loss, still healing after Oomen caught her on the docks. Those days had been horrible, the pain, the weakness, but Nina was there, making it bearable, helping Inej smile. It meant all the more because she knew how hard it had been for Nina, who was not a Healer, but doing her best.

"Nina is a born soldier," Inej said. "When she puts her heart to a cause, nothing stops her. I know she'll do a lot of good."

She just hoped that with all the good she did, Nina could find peace. The specter of Matthias's death hung heavy in the air between them, but Inej didn't name it.

Just like she didn't mention Kaz and hoped Jesper wouldn't either.

"You're one of her causes, too," Jesper said. Then, quickly, "That came out wrong. I meant, I think she's equally dedicated to you, to your friendship. I'm sure she'll write."

Inej nodded. "I hope so."

Jesper began to laugh.

"What?"

"I imagine she has terrible handwriting."

"Her handwriting is fine! You know she had a proper education at the Little Palace."

"I know," Jesper said, "and I'm sure she can write beautifully, when she tries. But I imagine her realhandwriting is a mess. Besides, education doesn't always equal good penmanship. I was at university long enough to see plenty of professors' handwriting."

"Will you go back?" Inej asked.

"To the university?"

"Yes."

She knew Jesper was happy enough for now being here… but she knew Jesper, too. He didn't stay still this long. The itch would set in again and he would need something to soothe it.

Jesper shrugged, a hand scrubbing at the back of his neck. "I hadn't thought about it. I didn't take the money from the job, so…"

So he couldn't afford to just leap into it. Inej hadn't considered that. She could dream her dreams. She was wealthy. Was soon to be wealthy? She hadn't even checked yet if the funds were in her account yet.

What sort of life had Jesper returned to, then? The same but in a new place? What was he going to do tomorrow or the next day?

Inej wondered all of this with a twinge. When she imagined being off on her ship taking down slavers, she hadn't thought to imagine where her friend would be. How he would be. What he would do. She hadn't asked herself if Jesper had a plan.

"We don't need to talk about this," Jesper said. "I'll find something, Inej. I always do."

"Sure," she agreed.

She was sure that if Jesper wanted finish his degree, Wylan or Colm would support him emotionally as well as financially, but that it wouldn't be the same. Dependence, debts, no matter who to, were one thing both Inej and Jesper understood the need to avoid.

And yes, she trusted Jesper to find something, but she worried about what that something might be.

But he changed the subject, and she was happy enough to go along with him, to talk the way they used to, just to be with him. It wasn't so different from being in the Slat again on a good night. The food had been better and the room was considerably more lavish, but Inej was Inej, Jesper was Jesper. The familiarity settled comfortably around her.

She wasn't sure how long they had been talking when she found herself yawning for the fifth time.

"That's it," Inej decided, "I need some sleep."

"Same," Jesper admitted. "Well—first I need to figure out where my merchling went." It had been a while since Wylan took the plates to the kitchen.

She smiled. "He's your merchling now, hm?"

Jesper waved an indifferent hand. "My merchling, the merchling…"

"My merchling."

He gave her a look.

Inej giggled. "Told you. No, don't look like that, it's nice that you show people you care about them. I like you two together. You sound… happy."

They wished each other a good night. Jesper hugged her, something Inej didn't expect, but appreciated. They parted ways. Inej would head upstairs. She had somehow thought she might get some reading done tonight. Obviously that plan was made by another Inej, one who didn't lose herself in the ridiculous antics Jesper and Wylan seemed to spark to life every night—singing, dancing. Always something with those two.

She headed up the stairs tiredly, taking her time. It was… nice. It was nice to push her energy so low without fear of reprisal; in the Barrel, she would have been running on adrenaline, catching a few minutes' sleep where she could. Inej had worked hard to make herself valuable to the Dregs. That didn't mean she loved the life. This, enjoying herself, it was—it was just fine, she thought.

Just fine indeed.

"Inej?"

She paused. Jesper was at the foot of the stairs, looking… worried. Maybe scared.

"What's wrong?"

"It's Wylan. He's—I don't know. I need your help."


	11. Cold

Trigger warning: emotional abuse (detailed recollection), physical abuse (implied)

* * *

Wylan stood frozen, looking at an echo. He had mostly avoided the dining room, only catching it in glimpses through the hole in the office floor. There was no reason to come here; the three of them were better suited to a casual place, anyway. But he was going to need to have the room fixed up eventually. If he was going to be the head of a company, if he was going to be a member of the Merchant Council, if he was truly going to take his place as Jan Van Eck's heir, he would at some point have a guest over, another merchant…

He couldn't not have a dining room.

He just hadn't anticipated that he would feel it so strongly being back in this room. It had caught him and he was stuck and he couldn't shake loose. His head was tilting, or the room was spinning…

"Wylan!"

Wylan jerked his head up. The room or his head went quiet suddenly still. He had a lurching feeling of nausea. Jesper and Inej stood in the doorway. How long had they been there?

How long had he been here?

He expected a joke. This would be a very good time to smile. A challenging time, too, he didn't feel like a smile just about now, but Jesper had a gift for making anyone smile at any time.

Except—Jesper had so many names for him. Names he would call anyone: gorgeous, beautiful. Names just for him: merchling, coppercurls, Wy, sunshine, starlight.

So many names, but Jesper had called him _Wylan_.

Inej stepped forward silently and asked, "What happened in this room, Wylan?"

Wylan swallowed a lump in his throat that didn't go away.

"The worst," he whispered. He took a tiny step toward the table. "He was remarried within a year. I was supposed to take a tonic, but I hated it. It tasted awful, made me feel sick. I refused. He insisted and I knocked it away, but I knocked the glass over—he was angry."

Wylan swallowed again. That hadn't been the first night he was expected to take the tonic. He knew he had been a brat about it, too, shoving the glass like that.

His fingertips played gently on the table. Tracing a path. Keeping his eyes focused here, away from his friends' faces. He thought if he answered he would seem okay. He couldn't just stand there silently like a podge.

"It's okay, Wylan."

She kept saying his name. He hadn't forgotten…

Didn't she understand? It _wasn't_ okay, what he did. It wasn't okay that he lost control now. But the memories were coming and he couldn't stop them, like they were rolling downhill and he had nothing with which to divert them, no time to build a wedge and send them sailing overhead…

"It hadn't come cheap. I was wrong to spill it, but he—it was just too much for him. _You are worse than worthless. You are a debt. Do you understand what I do for you? What would happen to you if anyone knew of your incompetence? You are a stain on my good name. Useless, simpering idiot!_"

Jan had smacked the table, and it was Wylan this time, Jan's words in Wylan's mouth, Wylan's hand coming down—he didn't understand why. He wasn't certain what he even meant to do. He slammed the table the way his father had and managed not to hiss at the pain of it but Ghezen's good fortune that stung!

"He made me—clean it. He made me clean up."

There was a long, almost confused pause. Wylan heard it above the blood thumping in his ears. With a hot rush of shame he realized his eyes were dampening and blinked quickly, refusing to cry. There had been something—something in Inej's tone, in the room, in its oppressive quiet, that made Wylan forget consequences were coming. He remembered now—where he was, who he had just told.

"He made you clean the table?" Jesper asked, a hint of laughter creeping into his voice.

Wylan wouldn't look at him.

"Jesper," Inej said.

"Oh, come on. He might have said some miserable things, but that's hardly the worst punishment. For most kids, clearing the table is a regular chore."

"Do most kids use their tongues?" Wylan snapped, turning to look at him now. Challenging. It was enough to shut Jesper up. Wylan read the startle in his eyes, the surprise. That was Jesper: hot emotions, strong and sudden. Inej registered this with cool acceptance.

A part of Wylan regretted his tone, a part that would take over later, when the anger faded. But now he was angry. He was angry because of what had been done to him, he was angry because he had been so afraid, he was angry because he was tense near to shaking and because he didn't like being dismissed that way. He was angry because the words were on his tongue now and he didn't think he could stop them coming, and he was scared of what Jesper and Inej would think of him.

"The floor, too. The whole spill. All those specialists, tutors, medicines, they're expensive. They're useless. Resources wasted on a moron, Ghezen frowns on waste. _I'll tell you when it's clean. Did I say you were through? Stop crying! You can clean that, too. Stop it. You brought this on yourself. Too stupid to write your own name. Too lazy to even try. You think this is difficult for **you**? I am the one who must live with this defective for a son, I am the one whose legacy will be squandered by an idiot mistake. You are useless to me. Shut up! Bad enough to have the mind of an infant, must you snivel like one, too? Stop that! Stop crying!_"

His foot swept out, catching on a chair and sending it clattering. Wylan was shaking now. He didn't understand what was happening or why he had needed to say those words. Maybe they were just too loud inside his head. Maybe he could spew them out like poison and be finished with them.

He could remember an awful lot when he set his mind to it. Forgetting was a trick he had yet to master.

Something inside of him was broken.

Something gave way.

His legs went weak and Wylan sat hard on the floor, gripping his elbows. He clenched his jaw and fought not to cry, tried not to think about what he looked like now, but he couldn't bring himself to move, either. The thought of what his friends saw ghosted by. Would settle later. Not that he didn't already know.

_Useless._

It wasn't like they hadn't known, after all. Back when they thought he was just some spoiled runaway—the former had been, well, not untrue—they knew Wylan didn't amount to much. He could tell himself all he wanted that he had grown, he was different, he had _helped_ but—

"Wylan." The voice was gentle, accompanied by a cool hand pressed against his burning face. "It's over now. You're here with us. It's over. He's gone."

He focused: Inej crouched in front of him, her expression steady, unreadable. The urge to cry crashed over him.

"Breathe."

He hadn't realized he wasn't, but when he opened his mouth, he gasped in air like he had been drowning. He gulped ragged, uneven mouthfuls. He still felt like he was drowning, like something had closed over his head and he didn't know the way out, but Inej was there and she was calm. She looked so assured that they were safe, it gave him a shred of confidence in the same.

She kept her left hand against his cheek and shifted her right knuckles, pressing them to his forehead and the other side of his face until the burn of humiliation receded.

"Wylan?" Jesper asked. He had been uncharacteristically quiet for too long, and now he said it again. _Wylan_. Wylan was afraid to look at him, afraid of what he might see. He was aware of Jesper sitting nearby but not quite beside him.

"I'm sorry."

Inej glanced at Jesper.

"It's not your fault," Jesper said.

Of course it was his fault.

"He wasn't usually like that, it was the only time he lost control. He tried to teach me, but that night I went too far. I shouldn't have knocked over the glass. I was thirteen, I was too old for a tantrum, I…"

"You were being a brat," Jesper agreed, "and you were due punishment for it. Your father could've sent you to bed without supper or cancelled your science lessons or whatever a normal merch does to punish his son. He didn't have to do that. He didn't have to say those things."

The words were barely audible: "I wouldn't learn."

"Horseshit. You learned everything you could. He was the miserable son of a bitch who refused to see that and couldn't treat his own son like a human being."

Wylan wasn't sure what to say to that. It didn't sound right, but it didn't sound illogical either. Shiver after shiver racked his body as he fought back the urge to cry. Everything just hurt so much.

"Jesper?"

"Right here."

Wylan didn't know if Jesper would understand what he meant, but he didn't know how else to say it, what words he could use. He couldn't say the truth outright. He feared too much to say it.

Instead, softly, he said, "I'm cold."

_If you were cold, you only had to say._

Did he remember?

If he did, would he pretend otherwise?

Wylan wouldn't blame him. That was really the worst in all of this, not the weakness but Jesper seeing it. Seeing that Wylan wasn't who he thought.

Jesper remembered. He shifted closer and pulled Wylan against him. An arm around his back, holding his shoulders. An arm across his front, holding him together. He wished he could stop shaking.

Wylan hated lying. He tried so hard to pick his words carefully, to tell a half-truth if he couldn't be honest. But he had lied to one of the most important people in his life. He had lied to Jesper when he let on that he was… that he wasn't… like this.

A steady, reassuring presence settled against his left side: Inej, her hands over Wylan's, easing his too-tight grip on his elbows.

Wylan always thought it was hyperbole when people said they thought their hearts might burst, but his certainly felt full to bursting now. He didn't know the last time he felt this safe, this accepted, this not alone. He knew that, as a child, he hadn't felt unsafe. It was different now, knowing how cold and alone felt and being brought so far from them.

"Thank you, Jesper. Thank you, Inej."

"You owe us so many waffles."

"Shevrati," Inej muttered. "There is no debt."

"I'm sorry I can't be strong like you."

"I'm grateful you aren't," Inej said.

They sat together on the floor for a while. Thoughts drifted through Wylan's mind idly. The acceptance he felt now. The fear it wouldn't last. The sense around him that this was the same cold, empty place with the same frightening echoes but here the three of them were warm and bright and could stave off those echoes.

"Wylan? Sunshine?"

"Yes?"

"Let's go to bed. This will all look better in the morning, okay, gorgeous?"

Hearing Jesper's flirtatious nicknames in that sedated tone was almost worse than not hearing them at all. He always played, but it was so genuine. The spark was out of his voice.

Wylan had hated everything that made Jesper's smile crumple in on itself. With all that had happened, how could he have been the worst? Yet he didn't doubt that he was.

_I'm sorry, Jes, I'm so sorry I hurt you. I'll never do it again. Please don't leave me._

Wylan nodded.

He didn't ask for it, but Jesper helped him to his feet. His brain struggled to control his body, too busy slogging through memories and words that landed harsh against him.

Jesper was upset. Dimmed.

Wylan always messed everything up.

His father said as much, even though Wylan—he tried. He didn't know how to make anything better! He remembered after dinner parties when he had been corrected for saying too little, keeping too much to himself. It was rude. And he remembered, too, other lessons after he allowed a conversation to stray too close to books and reading. He just wasn't very good. He was an awkward, inherently unpleasant boy, and despite his father's best efforts Wylan simply refused to learn how to control a conversation—

_You learned everything you could._

He had _tried._

He had tried but it wasn't good enough! He wasn't…

Wylan squeezed Inej's hand once before letting his fingers trail away. "Good night, Inej."

"Good night, Wylan. I'll pray for you."

"Thank you."

He didn't fully understand Inej's Saints, but had the sense they stood beside her while Ghezen preferred to watch and assess. Though it wasn't his religion, Wylan appreciated her prayers. He thought… Ghezen wouldn't care. Another time he would ask Inej about that, what her Saints could be prayed to about, what they did, what they were like.

He realized he had put little thought into other religions before. He had simply learned that they were false and wrong and their adherents were backwards, but his friends had shown him otherwise. Thoughtful, brave Matthias had followed what Jan called a "ridiculous, ignorant cult about a tree". Wise, strong, amazing Inej believed in "folktales spread by simpletons who cannot understand science". The only true god, the only god an intelligent man believed in, was Ghezen. Ghezen rewarded the works of men, not the ignorance of peasants.

Now Wylan found himself curious.

It was much easier to be curious about that.

Better than being curious about Jesper, who had never behaved this way before. He was quiet. He kept one arm around Wylan's shoulders, the other twitching at the buttons on his shirt or tapping whatever bits of woodwork they passed.

A part of Wylan was grateful. He didn't have to think about what to do next. Jesper guided him toward the stairs. When he spotted a maid, Jesper asked to have tea sent up for them. Things that used to be second nature to Wylan felt strange now, but Jesper had taken to them like a fish to water. Or like a Jesper to a fountain of champagne, equally fitting.

When they were alone, door closed between them and the rest of the house, Wylan said, softly, "I'll do better, Jesper."

"Don't say that!"

Wylan flinched.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to raise my voice. It's not you, Wy."

Wylan nodded, but… how could it not be him? After tonight, after he just lost control so badly he was sitting on the dining room floor shaking? How had his friends ever trusted him? If they had seen him here, like that, before the Ice Court job, they would have let him die in the Barrel. Maybe they should have. At least after that ridiculous display they understood why his father lost patience.

He toyed with a stray thread at his cuff. He knew he shouldn't pick at it, but it didn't hurt to just… move the thread a bit. Just to shift it around.

"I don't mean to be like that. It crept up on me. It—"

"Hey. Look at me," Jesper said, taking Wylan's face in his hands and tilting it, gently forcing Wylan to meet his eyes. Something trembling in Wylan cracked down the middle. Whatever he thought he would see in Jesper's eyes, it wasn't there. Fear. Concern. But not revulsion. "Stay with me. I'll stay with you but you have to stay with me."

"Yes," Wylan agreed.

A soft knock at the door told them the tea was here. Wylan wasn't entirely coherent, so Jesper took the tray, exchanged a few words with the same maid he had spoken to earlier—Wylan was fairly certain he knew her name, he just couldn't place it right now. He used those moments to pull a few deep, shuddering breaths into his chest. He was, he thought, starting to feel more like himself.

The problem with breaking down was that it was shameful. _It's shame that eats men alive_. Well, yes, it was, but this time Wylan was ashamed because he had been genuinely weak. How could he show Jesper that wasn't who he was?

And Inej.

But right now, Jesper.

Jesper's fingers tapped a rhythm on his revolvers, the way they did when he was bored or itching for another game. He picked up a cup of tea, then put it down, undrunk, and went back to that same tapping.

"Remember when we made that drill out of a stolen diamond and broken bits of a winch?" Wylan blurted.

The look Jesper gave him said that yes, he did. And that he was very confused to have it brought up just now.

_Remember that time I was helpful in breaking out of the Ice Court, which is supposed to be impossible? Because I'm not useless?_

Wylan gulped a mouthful of too much tea and swallowed quickly. It scalded down his throat, but didn't quite burn anything.

"I was useful. I helped. Just—try to remember that. Please. I'm not who you saw tonight."

Jesper had watched patiently while Wylan tried to put the words together. Now he said, "I know who you are. Tonight didn't change my opinion about you. Your father is a monster."

"He wasn't always so bad," Wylan insisted, suddenly wondering if he should have told them about what happened. "He wanted to help me. He just lost control of himself. The tonic—"

"No," Jesper interrupted, sounding so resolute Wylan startled. His tea sloshed in his cup, but managed not to spill. "No, Wylan. No more defending him. He hurt you because he's a mean son of a bitch. He went out of his way to do the worst things he could. Your mother. The letters. The way he kept you alone and afraid. He didn't deserve you for a son, and he doesn't deserve your loyalty or your defense. Keep your stupid waffles. Promise me you'll stop saying what he did was okay."

"Jesper…"

"Promise me."

"I promise."

"Good."

Wylan sipped his tea. It was cooler now, and he noticed it was sweetened with honey instead of sugar. It soothed his throat.

Softly, he said, "You called waffles stupid."

"Now you know what happens when I lose my temper."


	12. The Morning After

Jesper woke up early the next morning. Wylan was still asleep, curled away from him, and Jesper would be lying to say it didn't hurt. He wanted to be Wylan's person. He wanted to be who Wylan looked for first. He told himself Wylan just hadn't been himself last night, but the rejection still stung that after two nights of cuddling close to him, last night Wylan turned away.

Jesper stopped fiddling with the buttons on his nightshirt and reached over to touch Wylan's hair instead, ghosting a fingertip over his curls.

He hadn't realized how bad it had been. Jan Van Eck was a bastard, there was no question about that; since meeting the man, Jesper had never imagined he treated his son particularly well. The idea was in his head now: 13-year-old Wylan, on hands and knees, licking the floor. Tonic and dirt, snot and tears. He wanted so badly to step into that room, punch Van Eck in the jaw, put his arms around Wylan and tell him it was okay, he was better than this—and he knew he wouldn't have. Who he had been then, Jesper would have had no sympathy for a merchant's son. Saints… he would have laughed.

Why had he kicked the chair? Was that Wylan's response or was that what Jan had done? Had he kicked the chair or his son?

Jesper didn't want to know.

When had Jan Van Eck given up on Wylan? How long did he keep him around simply because he liked to humiliate him?

He didn't want to know.

How many incidents had there been? How many cutting words and bruising fists? Wylan said the incident in the dining room was the only time Jan lost control, but how many times had he inflicted perfectly controlled, measured cruelties?

A part of Jesper had held onto the belief that while Jan had been cold and hurtful, he hadn't been cruel. After all—fathers had to discipline their sons sometimes. When Jesper's da threatened to tan his hide so he wouldn't sit for two weeks, he had been exaggerating, but he had not been lying. Probably. But Colm was controlled. He hadn't punished his son because he wanted to but because Jesper, knowing full well what he was doing, tended to put himself in danger because he was bored. That control had slipped when Jesper showed off his zowa abilities, but that was only ever a bit of shouting, and it was because he was scared for Jesper's safety, not out of disdain.

Wylan was somehow both a bomb-maker and an innocent. He didn't hurt people who hadn't tried to hurt him first; he didn't assume people were out to harm others; he didn't get into a scheme without considering who it impacted. Maybe the Barrel would have beaten that out of him, but Jesper was grateful it hadn't gotten the chance.

He was amazed Jan hadn't managed it.

Thinking about this in a dark room was too much. Jesper looked away from Wylan, to the curtained window casting them both in dark shadows. He remembered how he felt the bullets when he moved them with his abilities—could he do the same to the curtains? To the metal rings…

Jesper focused on the rings. He tried to feel them, to sense them, like the bullets, to feel the edges of each ring in his mind. This wasn't what he usually did. Usually he just—separated out on thing from another and pulled it to him, it had only been a slight difference when he move the bullets.

But maybe.

Maybe.

He willed the rings to move.

They didn't.

He scowled at them to no effect.

Jesper sighed softly. Here they were then. He could get up and open the curtains, but he didn't want to wake Wylan. He was sleeping peacefully. That peace would be gone when he woke up.

"Can you live here?" Jesper asked.

He didn't expect or receive an answer, but he was coming to understand just what it cost Wylan to be in this house. The words he used. His father "corrected" him. His father "guided" him. "Helped" him. Why couldn't Wylan call it what it was? His father abused him.

Jesper hated to see people he cared about hurting. This was the most he had ever cared for someone outside his immediate family. Did that make sense? He had only known Wylan for a few months, only had a halfway decent rapport with him for a matter of weeks—and not many of them. Logically—who cared? Logic didn't matter. Jesper knew what he felt.

He remembered how much he had wanted Kaz's respect and trust. He knew he had Wylan's. Was this how it was supposed to feel? It was terrifying. It was like being back on Vellgeluk. He remembered how close he had been to shooting Jan Van Eck through the face and wished he were back in that position again. It was a useful thing to do, shooting people in the face. Sometimes.

Now Wylan was struggling and Jesper didn't know what, if anything, he could do.

He brushed his fingertips against the back of Wylan's head again, a mix of the ends of hairs and looping curls.

_You deserved better_.

"How do I help you?"

"You're here."

Jesper startled. "What—you were sleeping!"

"Sorry," Wylan mumbled. "I forgot. Sleep is an unchanging state."

"I heard that story. As I recall, it was about a princess."

"Do you want to kiss me awake?"

Yes.

"I don't make a habit of putting my mouth on someone who isn't in a position to agree," Jesper said, "but if you're inviting me…"

"I'm inviting you."

"Are your eyes closed?"

"Yes."

"On your back, this is a terrible angle for kissing."

Wylan rolled onto his back.

So Jesper kissed him.

Wylan opened his eyes. "'Morning," he said, softly, when Jesper pulled back just a few inches.

"'Morning. You feeling better?"

"Yeah."

"Did it help? Talking about… what happened?"

"It helped."

"Good."

Wylan slowly wound his hand in the fabric of Jesper's nightshirt and tugged him closer. Jesper was more than happy to oblige.

The truth was, Wylan wasn't much of a kisser. He was improving with experience. For now, Jesper took the lead and gave him nudges in the right direction. He slid his hand under Wylan's head, drawing him in. Asking.

Wylan pressed closer, his free hand wandering down Jesper's stomach.

Jesper pushed him away.

He would flirt, sometimes too much, but he kept his skivvies on unless he was certain both parties wanted more. Right now, part of him wanted more—because it was Wylan and because his hands were itching for _something_. He didn't want those two mixed. Wylan's first experience was not going to be a balm to soothe Jesper's restlessness.

"I thought you wanted…"

_Saints._ It wasn't going to be like that, either, he didn't want servicing. Not from Wylan.

"Another time."

"Oh. Okay."

"But it's nice that you want me again." Jesper heard the bitterness and pettiness in his own voice and he winced.

"I-I'm sorry."

Jesper brought his knees up and looped his arms around them. He supposed he was meant to know what to do. He _wanted_ to know what to do. This was why he had gone for Inej's help last night: he _didn't_ know what to do.

"Was it because I snapped at you?"

"Was what?"

"Was that why you didn't want me close to you last night?"

Wylan sat up, a shifting shadow-grey figure. Jesper didn't need to see any detail to know those blue eyes were fixed on the foot of the bed as he said, "I wanted you close. I didn't deserve you."

Jesper had been in more than his share of firefights, and he'd been about his share of shot.

It felt kind of like that.

At first, Jesper wasn't certain why. It bothered him that he had felt rejected, but there was a deeper sting. He needed a moment to realize what it was. Wylan had used Jesper to punish himself. It took the breath out of him.

"It's not your fault you snapped at me."

"It is my fault."

"No, it's not. Don't think that way," Wylan insisted, reaching over to put his arm across Jesper's shoulders.

Jesper leaned into him. Instinctive. Not realizing he had lost the thread of the conversation for a moment. Wylan was a fair bit shorter and this was not the most comfortable snuggle, but worth it, for a little while.

"You're wonderful. I know the past couple of days have been—probably boring and I've admired how well you've been handling it. It's understandable that you would lose your composure for a minute. Especially given how—how I was."

"Are you trying to reassure me because I regret being short with you?"

"You weren't short. You're not short at all."

Had Wylan just…? He had. He had tried to tell a joke.

That was _adorable._

"You were frustrated."

Jesper laughed, but without the usual humor one would associate with his—with anyone's laughter. But especially his. He did like to laugh and knew sometimes laughter was the best response. It could be genuine, sarcastic, warm or mocking. This laugh was hollow.

"Remember when we talked about you needing more spine?"

"And I told you that _I have plenty of spine_," Wylan said, pointed.

Yeah, they were going to have a chat about that, but first: "Lie down, would you?"

Wylan hesitated a second, but rather than question, he did as Jesper asked. Wylan was considerably shorter and him having an arm around Jesper's shoulders was nice but impractical. With Wylan on his back, Jesper settled against him, his head on Wylan's chest, one arm wrapped around him. Wylan once more rested an arm around Jesper's shoulder.

"Much better. You know you can tell me things, right?"

Wylan took too long to say, "I know."

"If you want to talk about what happened, you can talk to me. I know you think about it. There's nowhere in this house that doesn't take you away from me. But don't ever use me to hurt yourself."

"I'm," Wylan began, then abruptly stopped himself. He tried again, "I'll," and again a stop.

Jesper didn't need to ask what would have come next. Wylan was sorry. He would do better. How did anyone do this to another human being, let alone their own child? A part of Jesper wanted to tell him he was safe, he didn't need to be sorry.

Instead, he said, "Tell me how to help you."

He felt a tremor go through Wylan and his breathing catch. Jesper resettled himself, holding Wylan just a fraction tighter.

"I don't want to be useless."

"You're not."

_Useless._

That had been a sticking point for Wylan early on, and at the time, Jesper hadn't thought much of it. Or rather, at the time he had thought Wylan _was_ useless so why should he be so bratty about hearing it? He understood Wylan's stubborn pride, too, the way he insisted he mattered. He had fought so hard against the thing he believed and feared was true.

"Ghezen…" This time it didn't sound like a swear and Jesper felt Wylan shaking. He lifted his head. Wylan had his lip between his teeth, fighting back tears.

"Hey…"

Wylan pressed a hand to his eyes.

Jesper took hold of his free hand and gently drew it lower, kissing his knuckles and not letting go of his fingers.

"You can cry if you need to cry. I won't look. If you want me to hold you, I'll hold you."

"Thank you," Wylan scraped. "I don't—" he started, then stopped, sniffling. "I don't want to be like this."

"I know, sunshine. It's not your fault."

Jesper hated it.

He hated the helplessness, hated knowing there was nothing he could do. Right now, there was nothing he could do. He couldn't take the pain away. He couldn't comfort Wylan without making him more ashamed. The whole situation had him burning.

"I cry sometimes."

Not often, not really. But there was a stillness in Wylan that wasn't in Jesper; Jesper thought better in motion. If he felt the way Wylan did… he didn't know.

"I've seen my da cry, too," Jesper told him—just so Wylan understood that sometimes men cried and there was nothing wrong with it. "It's okay to cry when something hurts."

After a few minutes of gasps and sniffles, Wylan said, "I'm okay. I'm okay now."

_No,_ Jesper thought. _You're not._

What he said was, "It's killing me that I can't help you."

"Do you really believe that?" And, suddenly, Wylan's voice sounded strong again, certain, no longer laced with apologies. "Jesper, I couldn't do this without you. Not only the reading and writing. I couldn't walk through this house and believe I mattered without you. How many times in the past three days have you seen me getting lost and brought me back? Or made me smile when I forgot how?"

"I like making you smile."

"You've done so much for me. You're carrying me and it's not fair to you."

Was that the problem?

He could have given the easy answer. Wylan had given him a very nice place to live, hadn't he? He knew Wylan didn't want to hear that, though. His inheritance wasn't what made Jesper fall for him.

"I'm struggling," he admitted. "Okay?" He didn't like admitting; it was easier not having to look in anyone's eyes. "This part of the world, it's different and it's a lot to learn. Sometimes I want to run back to what I know. Starlight, you quiet the jagged places inside me. Don't ever think you're not saving me too."

Wylan didn't say anything, but he squeezed Jesper's hand. Once would have communicated his point clearly enough. Not that there was anything wrong with three times, either.

"Why do you think you aren't good enough?"

"I…"

Jesper could practically hear the squeal in Wylan's brain as his dislike of lying warred with his dislike of admitting he felt that way. Lesser. He obviously did. Maybe that was why he had seen it so clearly when the question was lurking at the back of Jesper's mind. Maybe Jesper should have noticed before.

He thought about the look on Wylan's face when Matthias said he had done his part rescuing Inej.

The surprised, hopeful look when Jesper said he was earning his keep in Fjerda.

Wylan opening his mouth like an idiot and almost blowing a mission because he didn't want Jesper having to give up his guns… Jesper being angry with him because this was hard enough without being reminded. He regretted it now.

Matter-of-fact, Wylan said, "Because I'm not. Why didn't I stand up to him? Why didn't I find my mother before, why didn't I help her? And with the Dregs, I was—I was there, but I was never as good, I was never one of you. I was born lucky and I'm pretty good at chemistry. You, Inej, Kaz… you're all do much. Talented, strong—Jesper, you're incredible."

"And?"

"_And_ you're the best sharpshooter this side of the True Sea _and_ you light up any room you walk into _and_ you have the most perfect—"

"I didn't mean—what?"

"What?"

"I have the most perfect what?"

"Oh. Well, everything."

"But especially…" Jesper prompted. He reached up to stroke Wylan's cheek gently, as much just to touch him as to feel the heat when he blushed. The smoothness of Wylan's skin struck him. Jesper knew Wylan hadn't shaved in the past few days. He knew he needed to shave and wondered how Wylan felt about kissing someone with stubble. (Not the time, not the time.)

He was distracted when Wylan—obligingly—blushed.

"Lips," Wylan said. "When I first saw you, I thought you had the most beautiful mouth I've ever seen."

"Unexpected, but appreciated. But that wasn't what I meant. I'm better than you are in a fight or at a party. Why does that matter? You're righteous." Kaz had used it, the way he used most men's greed and shame. Jesper didn't realize it at the time. "You're the first to speak up just because someone needs a champion. You think you're less and you still tried to protect Kuwei when me or Kaz was having a go at him."

It struck Jesper that Wylan had stood up for the others, too, if he had to. He had been the first to defend Jesper for running his mouth about the job in Fjerda. After Squallers on parem took Inej, Wylan had barely paused to breathe before assuming Kaz would get her back.

"I also threatened to push him in the canal."

"You wouldn't have," Jesper said.

Besides, Kuwei had pulled a nasty trick. Jesper should've double-checked but… but he had wanted Wylan. He wanted so badly for Wylan to be there, and there he was, like some stupid fairytale. And Kuwei had wanted him.

When Wylan didn't reply—_would you really push someone in the canal for me, merchling?_—Jesper said, "You weren't especially useful—not at first—but you've always tried hard and you learn fast."

He wished he hadn't been so short with Wylan about that. If he had known—if he had understood that Wylan couldn't help the cell of a world his father kept him in… Jesper didn't know. Maybe it wouldn't have changed anything.

"You're not my first choice in a fight, but you have your own sort of courage. You're kind. I'm stronger than you'll ever be, Wylan. You're kinder than I'll ever be. Let me be strong so you can be kind."

"You are kind."

Jesper laughed. "I'm infectious. I'm fun. Not the same thing. Saints, that is _you_. I'm telling you about the good in you and all you hear is the one thing about me."

"Jes… I…"

"No, shh, don't apologize." Not again. He couldn't, Jesper couldn't hear that again. "Who cares if you're the best criminal or a proper mercher? You're one of the cleverest demo contacts and wealthiest men in Ketterdam. You're a good person. Seems like you're doing fine."

"I didn't earn any of that. Kaz gave it to me."

"No, he…"

He sort of had, though. He restored Wylan's inheritance. He pulled Wylan out of the tannery. Well… Wylan had still worked in the tannery, but Kaz gave him enough demo work to avoid starving.

"Kaz kept me in Ketterdam when I could have turned around and gone back home. Kept me in the Dregs even when my luck was bad." Sometimes it had been the other way around. Jesper stayed for Kaz. But… it was still Kaz keeping him there. "There's no shame in someone else influencing your life."

Wylan was quiet at first, but his body said more than enough, tension easing out of him.

"Like you?"

At first, Jesper didn't understand—and then he did. Someone else influencing your life.

"Yeah. Just like me."

The stayed like that for a while and, although Jesper did his best, he felt the unrest settle in soon. He busied himself brushing his fingertips along Wylan's hand, but he was getting too itchy for just the one thing to do. He could have reached for his guns, but there was no way to do that without uncuddling.

"We should get up," Wylan said.

"We should," Jesper agreed.

Needful as he was to be once more in motion, he was reluctant to move and took more time than was necessary in leaving the bed, even after Wylan was up.

Wylan pulled the curtains open, spilling light into the room. It was the last push Jesper needed—much light, no Wylan—to get out of bed. He touched the water on the dressing table. If they had been up at a reasonable time, it would have been warm. This whole business of having servants was very nice.

Shaving did remind him of something, though: "Wy…"

"Yes?"

With Jesper otherwise occupied, Wylan didn't mind changing without a 'turn your back' promise. Jesper kept the mirror angled carefully away from him.

"Some ground rules for us? I will never do anything to hurt you. I'm not going to say I'm always easy to be around—"

"You are."

"Interrupting is bad manners, gorgeous."

"I'm willing to be rude when people slander my boyfriend."

_Boyfriend._ Did they agree to that? Saints, they hadn't, but the stirring in Jesper's chest said he was absolutely fine with it! He heard the shake in Wylan's voice, but liked that he said it anyway.

"Oh yeah? Sounds like a good boyfriend," Jesper said.

"The best," Wylan replied. "So smart. It's almost scary sometimes how quickly his mind works. He's witty and forgiving. Patient."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Well, he's patient with me. This mysterious boyfriend."

"Boyfriend slash secretary," Jesper said.

He heard the sigh and could picture Wylan rolling his eyes. It would have been annoying if he didn't have such gorgeous eyes.

"As I was saying before I was _rudely interrupted by an ill-mannered lout_," he tried again, this time making Wylan laugh just enough that he couldn't object, "I can be difficult sometimes. I'm aware of that."

"So can I."

"We're talking about me now."

Jesper opened his razor, aware he was about to slow the conversation. He could banter wittily while lathering up but with a sharp blade to his throat he would keep things nice and steady.

"I didn't like what you asked me yesterday," he said, and realized in the lull that Wylan wasn't entirely certain: "Outside Saint Hilde, you asked if I was punishing you. I wouldn't do that. That's what I was going to say when you fell, that I wouldn't do that. It doesn't matter that I didn't like what you did, I wasn't going to hurt you for it. No more of that."

"The deal is the deal."

"Wy."

"No, I mean it. I won't… I can't promise I won't think that way, but I'll remind myself that it's not you."

Jesper could live with that. "Good," he said, wiping the last smears of soap off his face. He couldn't grow a good beard yet; he had tried and it made him look like a child playing dress-up. He didn't precisely mind how he looked clean-shaven, either, he just would have liked his body to hurry up and give him the option.

Then Wylan came over, put his arms around Jesper's shoulders, and kissed his cheek, and suddenly having to shave off his patchy not-beard stubble was the best thing in the world.

Giving Wylan's hands a gentle squeeze, Jesper said, "One more thing?"

"Just the one?"

"For now. You don't have to tell me what he did if you don't want to, but maybe you could tell me the truth about your birthday?"

He felt the tension zing into Wylan's body, watched in the mirror as he went from questioning to realizing.

"You knew?"

"You said he and Alys had been married for about a year, that it was within a year of… what happened in the dining room. And…" Jesper stroked Wylan's cheek. Not a hint of growth.

"Redheads are late bloomers," Wylan grumbled.

"Why did you lie?"

Glumly looking away from the mirror, he said, "I thought people would take me more seriously if I was older."

That had been a severe miscalculation on his part. With his baby face, Wylan could have shaved a year off his age—Jesper might not have flirted with him, but Kaz might have gone easier.

Who was he kidding? Kaz wouldn't have gone easier.

"Jesper."

"Listening."

"My birthday is next month and I'm going to be sixteen. And… there's something else I should tell you…"

Jesper glanced from reflected Wylan to real Wylan, twisting a bit to get a better look. He genuinely had no idea what to expect now. That intrigued him.

Wylan took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry, Jes…"

Jesper braced himself, promising that it would be okay, whatever it was it would be okay.

"…but I want cake, not waffles."

Jesper released a bark of laughter. He was so surprised and impressed by how well Wylan had built that up, misled him into thinking this was a serious concern (a serious lapse in taste, maybe…) that he barely realized what he was doing until he had pulled Wylan into his lap. Wylan braced himself with an arm on Jesper's shoulder and he was smiling, but his smile had faltered some and there was a question in his eyes.

"Is this okay?" Jesper asked.

"It's okay." But the response was breathless and not just in the good way.

"You can change your mind. If you tell me something's okay but you don't like it, tell me to stop."

Wylan nodded. "It's new, but it's okay."

Jesper accepted that, but as he reached for the buttons on Wylan's shirt, he asked again: "I'm going to unbutton your shirt, is that okay?"

"Yes."

It was strange—earlier, when Wylan tried something, Jesper had seen no choice but to push him away. Maybe it was because they had talked honestly with each other. Maybe it was because Wylan seemed more his old self now. Whatever the reason, this felt right.

When he had space enough to push aside the silk, Jesper didn't need to ask.

"It's okay."

He was careful with Wylan. He had shown he was tougher than he looked and didn't complain about injuries, but here Jesper didn't need to think about that. It was just them, just Wylan and him and that smooth, delicate skin that took so easily to bruises.

"You can tell me if it's not okay."

"I know."

Jesper drew Wylan in closer and leaned nearer. He kissed down his neck, toward his shoulder, feeling as well as hearing when Wylan's breathing shifted. He was enjoying this. So was Jesper. He liked the closeness, liked burying his nose in the scent of his now-official boyfriend, liked the taste of his skin. He liked eliciting those little sounds he could tell Wylan was trying and failing to suppress.

He paused before doing anything that would leave a mark.

"I'm going to leave a bruise—no, not like that. It's a… kiss. It's kind of a kiss. Is that okay?"

Wylan hesitated. "Will it hurt?"

"A little," Jesper murmured, "but I think you'll like it. If you want me to stop, just say so and I'll stop."

He nodded. There was still a note of nervousness, but: "Okay."

Jesper had done this before, but usually he had been with partners who didn't need him to explain love bites. They knew. Wylan didn't and Jesper felt the tremor of nerves in him, listened attentively for anything that suggested Wylan wanted him to stop. He heard plenty, but none of it was bad.

"Wy?" he asked, when he was through. Jesper pulled away so he could read the reaction in Wylan's face.

Wylan's fingers brushed the tender spot.

"Wy, did you like that?"

"I'm not sure," Wylan said, mouth tugging into a wicked little smile. "Could you do it again? As an experiment?"

"Anything for science."

They were both certain later, when Jesper found a clean corner of the towel he had used to wipe off his shaving soap and dried the growing bruises on Wylan's collarbone and shoulder.

"You'll feel them later. If you don't like it, we won't do it again."

Wylan nodded. "So—that's the sort of thing you learn in the Barrel?"

Jesper wanted to laugh and bit down on his tongue to keep from doing so. He wanted to laugh now. But in the future he wanted Wylan to keep talking to him about these things. Kissing. Intimacy. He wanted it to be something new that was fun and safe and theirs, and he knew if he made Wylan feel stupid about it now, the damage would have an echo.

"That's just normal stuff."

"It is?"

"It is. Stop staring into my eyes and button your shirt."

"I could drown in them," Wylan said, then went bright pink as he fixed his buttons. Jesper watched the marks disappear. Wylan must have been having the same thoughts, because he hesitated, looking at the reddened skin. "It'll show?"

Jesper nodded. "You'll notice later."

"Like an echo of you on my skin. 'Jesper was here'."

"Well, we can always try this again and if you really like it we'll get my name tattooed on your shoulder…" He trailed off at the end, realizing what he had said.

"It's okay," Wylan said, his face likewise showing a sting, but he recovered quickly. "That could be… kind of nice. I would have to trust you on what it said, but no one else would know that, so it would be ours twice over."

"Are you serious?"

"I'm not ready for a tattoo, but maybe one day. Are you going to let me go?"

"Mm, that seems like it would lead to you not being on my lap."

"It would."

"Weak incentive."

"I can't just sit here all day."

"You'll have to if I don't give you an option," Jesper retorted.

Wylan laughed and either it was the funniest joke he'd ever heard or he was just in a really good mood, because he laughed so much Jesper had to object to it.

"Stop squirming or you're going to fall!"

"So l…" More laughter. "So let me go."

"Fine," Jesper said, though he had to half-shove Wylan to his feet. He really was laughing that hard. "I like this tattoo idea. Of course that's in the future, so I'll find another way to remind Nina after we tell her."

"What?"

"I'll try to protect you," Jesper continued, feeling the sly and the laugh return to his tone. "I'll always try to protect you, but this is Nina we're talking about, and with her new power—"

"Jesper, what are you talking about?" Wylan asked.

"I warned you what would happen if you called yourself a moron again."

"Wha—"

_I'll tell Nina you tried to kiss Matthias. With tongue._

"You're not going to—"

"Ah, ah, actions have consequences, merchling," Jesper scolded.

"You wouldn't do that to Nina," Wylan pointed out.

That was actually true. It had been one thing before Matthias passed on. Now it would be cruel.

"Then I'll tell Kaz you called his haircut stupid."

Wylan burst out laughing. "Hey, you need me alive!"

Jesper kissed him. "I guess so. For now."


	13. Good Monsters

TW: physical/emotional abuse

* * *

Saint Hilde had very peaceful grounds, but Wylan felt his mother's growing agitation nonetheless. He tried to engage her in a conversation. He chattered about pieces of music. About painting techniques. About how dull a DeKappel really was.

Jesper hadn't joined him today. He had offered, but Wylan couldn't ask him to keep giving up hours every day just to sit next to Wylan and hold his hand… even if Wylan did like holding Jesper's hand under any circumstances.

Marya seemed slightly agitated by him, too.

Wylan couldn't blame her. It was the echo of the lie they told. He wanted to blame Kaz. The lie had been his idea. But Wylan knew it wasn't really Kaz's fault, that even if he hadn't been exactly gentle about it, Kaz had been the one to bring Wylan and Marya back into one another's lives.

Today Marya looked away and gave only brief, single-word answers.

"Are you well?" Wylan asked, finally. He had asked how she was earlier, but maybe she hadn't be honest. Maybe she hadn't felt comfortable saying it in there.

"Fine," she said. Terse.

"Mama."

He reached for her arm, but she pulled away. It stung; Wylan forced himself to take a breath and remember that this wasn't about them. It was about the years between, the time she spent here. Whatever was happening in her mind, the confusion caused it.

"This is a mistake, I don't want you here," Marya said, looking away from him.

Another breath.

"I—"

"I don't want to see you."

"Mother—"

"He'll take you away again!"

The words landed hard, but Wylan understood perfectly. It was the sort of thing Jan would do. There had been times Wylan lost his flute, drawings torn, his pen and ink set missing and a severe-looking book in its place. He had spent too much time on trivial distractions, neglected to work at—

_No._

No, Wylan reminded himself, he had worked at his reading. He did everything he could. Taking his flute and ruining his art had been cruel.

"He won't," Wylan promised, reaching for her hands again.

His mother pushed him away. She shoved him.

"Don't touch me! I can't lose you again! You're only making it worse for us both, don't come here anymore!"

Wylan glanced around. Her voice was rising. It might attract attention—he didn't want anyone to hear her like this, or to see her so agitated. They wouldn't understand. They would think she wasn't well, they might prevent him from bringing her home…

"He's not coming back."

"You don't know him!"

_I know him very well_, Wylan thought.

She wound her hands into her curls, gripping white-knuckled.

"Mama, stop."

He couldn't hide this. If she hurt herself, he couldn't hide this. What if she fell further away from him? If they had to restrain her again? He knew she wanted him to stay away, but she had to stop. He put his hands on hers, trying to ease her grip.

"I said don't touch me!"

Well, if her raised voice had left any piece of the calm unbroken, the echo of a slap shattered it.

Wylan looked away. His cheek stung and he felt the red rising, and he wished she hadn't hit him on the face where it would show. He wished he could see through this situation to the right end the way Inej would. He wished… he wished Jesper were here. Inej would tell him it was only his mother's confusion—he knew that—but Jesper would tell Wylan the thing he wanted to believe. Jesper would tell him that he was a good son.

Wylan held onto that thought, not telling Jesper about this, not asking. The thought of being next to Jesper, his smile, the sly note that crept into his voice just before he teased. _Soon, soon._

Marya sobbed drily. When Wylan raised his eyes, he saw her hands held to her mouth, tears glittering in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," he told her in a low, hoarse voice. "You said not to touch you and I should have listened. I won't do it again."

"Oh, my Wylan, what did he do to you? What have I done to you?"

He looked around again. A nurse was approaching more speedily than Wylan would have liked. Had they seen her hit him? Heard it? His mind scrambled for explanations, for anything he could say to prevent them from punishing her. She was his mother, after all. She had every right.

"Please forgive me."

If this set back his plan to bring her home, he needed to know she didn't hate him.

"_Please_ forgive me, Mama."

Tears rolled down her face. Her hands stayed over her mouth.

He didn't know what else to say. He brought a hand to his shoulder. The bruises had formed. They didn't really hurt, but he felt them more than he felt the rest of his skin. _Jesper was here._

"Mister Van Eck, Miss Hendriks," said the nurse, bringing a hard set to Marya's face. "I hope we're all doing well!"

"We are, thank you," Wylan said.

He sounded weaker than he would have liked. If he had a different voice… if he had Kaz's rasp people would be too afraid to question him. If he had Matthias's rumble no one would think to. Even Jesper's easy confidence would do the trick. But he had none of those, only his own voice that sounded like a reedy shout when he tried to raise it and hit clear, crisp notes when he sang.

That did not stop him saying, "I have asked that my mother be addressed by her married name, Marya Van Eck."

"Of course, of course," said the nurse, giving Wylan an indulgent smile. "Mrs. Van Eck."

For all she meant it she might as well have winked.

"Was there something you needed from us?" he asked, trying not to clip his tone as sharply as he had with Kuwei. Wylan had done things he was ashamed of, but he didn't like this mean side that was bubbling up in him lately.

"It did seem _Mrs. Van Eck_ might be getting a little agitated."

He didn't like the look she gave his mother. He didn't like how he said her name, the way she might have indulged a child.

Wylan stepped between the nurse and his mother.

"I would think that's normal," he informed her, "considering the news that my father has been arrested."

"Oh… oh my."

"Indeed. We were just going to take another turn around the garden then we'll be back inside, the weather's so lovely today. There's nothing like fresh air for processing bad news."

What was he saying? Did any of this make sense? It felt… well… it felt mad. The explanations popped into his mouth so easily he felt like Jesper might have, except that without Jesper's smooth charm and quick thinking, it all probably sounded ridiculous, words strung together in half-meaningful sentences.

The nurse nodded. "Very well then, Mister Van Eck."

When she had gone, he turned to his mother again, a question on his face and in the set of his shoulders. She was weeping softly.

"I… I'd like to hug you, Mama, may I do that?"

"What have I done…"

"Mama? May I hug you, please?"

She nodded.

Wylan was gentle. He didn't pull her into a hug but put his arms around her slowly, giving her ample time to shove him away. It was okay if she did that. They weren't used to each other anymore. She didn't, though. She wrapped her arms around him and held on, and as much as he wished he could just melt into her hug, he wasn't a child and she wasn't here to protect him. It was his job now to protect her.

"What did he do?" she asked, tearful.

"He tried to influence the markets."

"Oh, no," she said. "No, no, my Wylan. What did he do to you?"

Suddenly the weather felt less lovely. Wylan felt the cold crash through him. How would he, could he answer? Not honestly, but the memories were so fresh in his mind: slaps, beatings, cold fury on Jan's face, furious pinches in bruised places when Wylan gave the wrong answer at a social event and needed to be told subtly to shut his idiot mouth. The chilling humor when the third hypnotist failed to cure him—Wylan didn't know why his father thought hypnotism would help, but he remembered what Jan said to him when it didn't. _Worthless,_ he had said, _but at least you are entertaining._ Wylan never did learn what he had done in those lost minutes. He remembered that. He remembered every barbed word and cutting look that he would have gladly traded for another bruise.

He couldn't tell her any of it. Knowing would upset her, and… and he didn't want her to think of him that way. Bad enough Jesper and Inej knew. Stupid, pathetic Wylan, crying as he licked the floor. Jesper would have beaten the lights out of anyone who tried to make him do something like that. Inej would have, too, but if she had been small and helpless, at least she would have been dignified. She wouldn't have sniveled.

_He didn't have to do that. He didn't have to say those things._

That was all well and good, Jesper, but Wylan could have taken it like a man instead of like a toddler.

"Do you remember the Boeksplein?" he asked. "You told me there are good monsters. I met one. A good monster. He was so angry with Father. He didn't lie, Mama, Father is a bad man and he cheats, and he hurts people. The good monster took everything away from him. He's still watching, just like the statues, and he'll make sure Father stays away for a long, long time. Even if he were released, he has nothing. The Transfer of Authority is signed. Everything is in my name now. I want you to come home, and I promise I'll do everything I can to help you."

The rest of the visit passed uneventfully. They didn't talk much, but they did take that stroll around the garden, and Marya allowed Wylan to take her hand for most of it. She seemed steadier when they parted ways. A bit—did he dare hope?—more herself.

Wylan walked back to the dock, something he thought helped clear his head, giving him time to process all that had just happened. Once he was back on the boat, though, he found himself unable to draw his thoughts away from the heat in his face. For once, it wasn't from blushing.

_She didn't mean it,_ he told himself. All those years, she spent so long alone, she forgot things. She didn't mean it. It wasn't her fault.

But… why?

Of all the ways she could have made her point, why did she have to hit him?

Wylan remembered the rumble of a tank. He remembered the gun turret, the weapon he told himself he struggled to control because his hands were raw from popped blisters, not because it was built for soldiers, big ones at that, and he didn't have the strength. No one had asked, but no one had criticized him, either. Even with his lack of finesse, he had felt capable.

Was he that boy? He remembered being that same person, that same capable person. He felt like someone other people struck to make him obey.

_It's not her fault…_

But if she wasn't thinking, if it was all instinct, then her instincts said to hit him.

_She was sorry._

_She didn't mean it._

He touched his face and was ashamed that his hand came away wet. He scrubbed his eyes on his cuff.

Stop, he told himself. He heard his father's voice in his head, his father's disdainful analysis of the art and music Wylan took such joy and pride in: pretty. Of Wylan, in whom Wylan himself took very little pride for a very long time: worthless.

They were calculated insults, Kerch insults. Value was everything in Kerch. Value was a sign of Ghezen's favor. And "pretty"? There was no place for adornment in a culture of value. Merchants wore blacks and greys, practical clothing in serious colors. Their homes had rich things, but rarely lovely things. Lovely things were too often without purpose. Jan had been clear that Wylan was nothing but a bauble, a thing without function or purpose.

_Brilliant. Gorgeous._

He'd heard it enough times that Wylan might have been starting to believe it. He wasn't sure it was any sort of fact, but he believed he was good with chemistry, and he was gorgeous to Jesper. And frankly he didn't much mind what anyone else thought. The words came with a memory of Jesper's arms around him, the warmth of his skin and the steady rise and fall of his chest, the faint beating of his heart in the quiet dark.

He would be there soon. Tonight. Wylan realized he had just assumed he would be next to Jesper—he wasn't waiting for an invitation.

The thought was enough to stop his crying.

Jesper liked pretty things.

Jesper liked Wylan.

It was nice. It was… new. His father had weaponized Wylan's body against him, exploited its weaknesses, used it to punish him and to control him. Wylan was so used to the idea he never truly considered his body might be something to value. He still felt a flutter of nerves when Jesper looked or touched too much in the light—Wylan liked Jesper's attention too much to ask him to stop, but he was afraid of the day Jesper changed his mind. Things were easier in the dark, where he couldn't actually see it.

Not that anything was exclusively physical, of course.

That morning, when Wylan hadn't considered himself, whether he wanted it, when he went to touch Jesper because Jesper would enjoy it—he hadn't been present. He had been a body with a task and a person inside who didn't know how to feel or understand and so didn't. Jesper had known. Somehow, he had known, and he hadn't wanted it without Wylan. He probably hadn't meant much by it, but to Wylan that meant—Ghezen would go deaf to his name and prayers—it meant more than four million kruge.

And, yes, the thought buoyed him that he would fall asleep tonight tangled up in someone who saw him, wanted him—but it wasn't enough. He was quite happy being Jesper's… but he wanted to be more, too. He needed strength of his own, the strength of someone who climbed ropes up incinerator shafts and helped break out of prisons. Maybe if he could find the place where his strength was sleeping, things would be better.

His first stop at home on Geldstraat was the Grisha workshop, where he asked Sveta to fix his bruising cheek. He didn't want Jesper to know. He had a brief word with Pyotr as well, unpleasant, but productive.

From there, Wylan went to the house guards' central post by the little armory. The guards gave him the polite, half-meant greetings to which Wylan was growing accustomed. But that was part of the problem, wasn't it? The wrongness of him.

Wylan took a breath.

He might hate this.

He might regret it.

"I'm looking for someone who can teach me how to fight."

The guards traded glances.

"That takes time."

Yes, and it would likely hurt, too.

"I'll be here for a while," Wylan replied.

He would—but he would become more. Stronger. He might hate it, and it might hurt, but it would be worth doing.

Maybe the first step toward not being hit was knowing he wasn't helpless.


	14. Merchants and Shopkeepers

Note: The myth discussed in this chapter takes some details from King of Scars, so it could be considered spoilers-though just about the Ravkan saints, not the book itself.

Also: thanks to WinkieGuard for reviewing!

* * *

This, Jesper decided, was his favorite afternoon. He liked the mansion on Geldstraat well enough. It was difficult to dislike a place with a soft bed, warm meals, decent lager (he would have a word with Wylan about that), better liquor (not that he had partaken, not yet, but Jan Van Eck had fine taste in the hard stuff), one of his closest friends, and a gorgeous merchling to snuggle at night. Everything he could have thought to want, he had. And then some.

But it was a bit boring sometimes. A man needed things to do besides eating, drinking, and sleeping with Wylan. (Jesper knew he could have told himself this in different words, but was quite happy not to do that.)

Today was different.

Today, after Wylan returned from visiting his mother and Jesper convinced himself that was enough time with the horses, they and Inej headed to the harbor.

"You need to go first, Wy," Jesper said.

Inej nodded.

"Remember, it's _your_ company."

Wylan took a deep breath and nodded. "Right," he said. Right, it was his company. He took another breath and hid his nervousness, sat up straighter. Though he couldn't hide the seasick look on his face, he did appear a little more mature this way.

Jesper didn't say a single inappropriate thing. This wasn't the occasion. He took a moment to enjoy the difference of being out here on the water. Fear of plague didn't bother the gulls, who squawked until he wished he had a rock to throw at them. Pulling his revolvers seemed a touch excessive, but give him another ten minutes of this, he might change his mind. The little boat had taken the waves hard, bad enough that even Jesper and Inej were a touch green around the gills from it. Now they were protected from the worst of it, their boat steady alongside the subtly named _Legacy_.

Wylan thanked the fisherman he had paid to bring them out here, then started up the rope ladder first.

Inej looked to Jesper.

"After you," he said, "you're going to make me look bad either way."

"True," she agreed, and alit onto the ladder like a sprite. He didn't know how she did it. If you asked Jesper, there was just the one basic way to climb a rope ladder. Somehow Inej turned it into a dance—because she was Inej. Of course she did.

On deck, Wylan shook hands with the ship's captain. He had drawn himself up to his full height for the conversation. With a knit cap keeping his curls in check, he almost looked his age.

"Thank you for having us aboard. I'm Wylan Van Eck, I'm running the company until my father is able to resume his position."

_If he ever gets out of prison I'll shoot him in the guts so he dies slow,_ Jesper thought.

"This is Jesper Fahey."

Jesper shook the captain's hand. "Mister Van Eck's secretary."

The captain replied with a nod. Not polite, not impolite, just matter-of-fact. He wondered if he ought to have added a 'what business'. Neither merchants nor manners were Jesper's area of expertise. From the looks of the captain, though, rude or not, it hadn't bothered him.

"And Inej Ghafa."

Inej likewise offered a handshake. She was doing it again, that thing she did where she did what normal people did with a slight tilt of her head or set of her arms or turn of her foot that made clear she was in fact balancing through this world on a rope the rest of them could not see.

"Captain," Inej said.

"Miss Ghafa."

"Inej has a keen interest in seamanship. I had hoped she might have the chance to observe the _Legacy_ in action," Wylan explained.

The captain frowned. It made his beard droop almost mournfully. "We'll stay anchored safe," he said, "until the plague has passed."

No one wanted to dock in Ketterdam. Out here, they were safe. The ship had come into no contact with anyone infected or potentially infected… at least until the owner of the company got pushy.

"I respect your concern for your health and that of your crew, but your cargo may not last the plague concerns," Wylan said. That was true: the _Legacy_'s hold was stuffed with mangos, oranges, bananas, and coconuts. The coconuts would probably last a bit and the oranges could be made into marmalade, but the rest might rot before Ketterdam declared itself safe.

"We're not dying over a profit," the captain said.

The captain, Jesper thought, was not Kerch.

"Perhaps while we conduct negotiations, Miss Ghafa might have a tour of the ship?" Wylan suggested.

Jesper almost pitied whichever poor sailor thought they were going to show a tourist around. Inej was here for business. The three of them knew she would make it all of five feet before she had a dozen questions.

The captain agreed, and as expected, there were more than a few volunteers.

"Study hard, Inej," Jesper murmured.

Inej gave him a quick grin.

"I understand it's a risk," Wylan continued, "and because of that, the Van Eck shipping company will make funds available for mediks if anyone should contract plague-like symptoms."

It was an easy offer to make, knowing full well there would be no plague-like symptoms. It had sparked a whole discussion with the three of them, with Wylan wondering if they shouldn't just have that policy in general. People got sick, he said, they got hurt, wasn't it in the best interest of the company to help a valuable employee get better?

"And if they die?"

The captain thought he was pushing hard, shoving the little merch out of his depth with death. A year ago, he would have been right.

"Their families will be compensated," Wylan said without a flinch, "generously."

They had discussed this, too. They both knew Wylan wanted to start with a fair offer instead of bartering it away piecemeal, but that wasn't how things were done. It seemed rather than teaching him to look out for himself, his time in the Barrel had taught him that everyone was working very hard and those who could help ought to.

Jesper stood back, watching. This wasn't normal, Wylan acting assured and in control, and Jesper liked it.

He scanned the visible parts of the deck, but couldn't spot Inej. That meant nothing—partly because the entire deck wasn't visible, partly because Inej was silence and stealth incarnate. He wasn't worried about her. He just wanted to see her enjoying herself.

"All right," the captain gave in, "but if this goes south, it'll be remembered, Van Eck."

As he turned and began giving orders to the crew to raise the anchor, there was a distinctly cross tilt to his head.

"Good work," Jesper said, giving Wylan a quick kiss.

Wylan squeezed his hand. "Do you want to climb the ropes?" he asked.

"Saints, _yes_."

"Well, go on."

"Don't you want to ask the captain?"

Wylan shrugged. "He's already cross and it's my boat."

"Ship."

"I'll call my things whatever I like, Mister Fahey."

Jesper grinned. "Bold and bossy, I like this side of you."

Then he loped across the deck and hauled himself up into the rigging. One he got high enough he had a decent view of Inej, who looked like she was helping ready the ship for its stroll into its berth. They didn't have far to go, but that wouldn't stop her learning any more than it would stop him enjoying the feeling of all but flying.

As the ship began its slow move forward, Jesper felt the pressure shift as sails caught the wind. He grinned. The water seemed so calm from up here and briefly he considered jumping. Wouldn't that be fun, to jump from the rigging all the way to bay? But he was a little too uncertain what sort of injuries that entailed and opted for thinking about it rather than acting on that impulse.

They didn't have long. Jesper, keeping out of the sailors' way as best he could, scrambled higher. The air was cooler and cleaner on the water, and though he couldn't climb like Inej, he imagined this was something of how she felt high on a rooftop.

Except the house was moving.

And the roof was made of rope.

He would never be ridiculous enough to tell Inej as much, but he suspected his experience was better.

It all had to end eventually, of course. When the ship reached its berth, Jesper watched the goings-on below for a while before climbing back down to the deck.

It took time.

Inej continued to shadow the crew, learning more about the ship. Wylan stayed near the captain, learning and supervising at once. Jesper wandered close to him sometimes, to listen, to squeeze his hand, and more than once to climb the rigging again because it was fun. He thought he spotted someone familiar once, but he looked again and they were gone.

Wylan had arranged for half the cargo to be stored, the other half taken to Zelver District and sold. Hawking wares from a merchant gondel was cruder than Geldin District denizens tended to appreciate, but, Wylan wagered, they would make a tidy sum in Zelver District.

Jesper poked at Wylan's hair.

"Hey," Wylan objected. When Jesper didn't stop: "What are you doing? I don't have lice."

"I'm well aware of that. But clearly since you have both a mercher's mind and a demo man's mind, these curls are hiding some sort of cerebral protrusion."

"This is why you weren't studying anatomy, Jes…"

"I've been studying yours."

Wylan blushed.

"You're cute when you blush," Jesper murmured, which made him blush more.

When they were heading for the canals at last, Wylan said, "Thank you both for being there. Was it useful, Inej?"

She nodded. "I learned a good deal."

"You'll be great," Jesper said.

"You will," Wylan agreed. "But how would you know the right ships?"

Jesper frowned. Why was he doing that? Inej was excited about this. It was perfect for her and something she would excel at. Why look for problems?

"I didn't mean it was a bad plan," Wylan said, "only—I was thinking about the _Ferolind_, when we had the Haanraadt flag. Slavers probably do that, too, don't they?"

Ah—Jesper once more spotted someone he knew. He swallowed a sigh. Best to deal with this rather than let it spoil the evening.

"They do," Inej agreed. She explained things she knew, things she had learned—how to spot a ship in an unusual location or off season, what to look for in the sailors through a long glass.

Jesper had known she was serious about this, but he had not realized how much time and planning Inej had already put into preparing for her life at sea. That was a difference in the two of them. Inej decided something and laid out an orderly, researched plan. Jesper saw an opportunity and dove in. He learned best when he learned fast.

He reflected on it as he slipped away, leaving Inej and Wylan chatting happily about tactics for identifying slaving ships. He would catch up to them.

"Didn't think you'd make it this easy, Fahey."

Jesper was stopped by a couple of low-level types with knives. Really? Knives? He gave them an unimpressed look as his hands went to the mother-of-pearl handles of his revolvers.

"Don't try anything," warned one of the men. He pulled a pistol and though he drew slowly, Jesper removed his hands from his revolvers.

He could have killed them. He chose not to. A pre-fight buzz was starting and he wanted to enjoy it.

"Don't you think this is a mild overreaction?" Jesper asked. Really, they were making themselves look foolish.

"More of a major overreaction."

Whether or not the man understood 'overreaction' remained to be seen, but as two more men joined them, Jesper realized if this turned into a fight, it would be a good one. He felt a fizzing in his blood, a promise of adrenaline in the near future, and—

"What business, gentlemen?"

The fizzing came to a screeching halt. Jesper clenched his jaw; Wylan did not belong here. He was no good in a fight.

"Nothing to concern yourself with," Jesper said tightly. _Go, Wy._

"My friends and I," said one of the less than impressive but notably armed men, "are collecting on a little debt. Black Tips will have what they're owed."

Wylan nodded. Despite the warning look in Jesper's eyes, he continued to approach, strolling into the middle of the fight. _Dammit, Wylan._ Jesper didn't know what had gotten into him, what he thought he was achieving here. He was no Kaz Brekker, not so thoroughly informed nor so wily as to manipulate his way out of this!

"What is the debt?" he asked, and Jesper narrowed his eyes. What exactly was he trying to achieve here? Scaring Jesper? Or embarrassing him?

"Wylan," Jesper muttered. "Later."

Wylan ignored him, which only frustrated Jesper more—what did _Wylan Van Eck_ think he knew about a situation like this? It wasn't even a 'situation' for Jesper, just a chat he needed to diffuse. A fight he looked forward to having, just to let off a bit of tension.

One of the men named his debt owed to an Elias Breen.

So much? Jesper felt himself starting to blush and ordered the feeling away. He didn't know when he had got himself in that deep. And who the hell was Breen?

"Who the hell is Elias Breen?" Jesper asked.

"A man who wants his money." The statement was accompanied by a menacing step forward and that fizzle of excitement returned, Jesper shifting his stance to meet the challenge.

"He'll have it," Wylan said. Coolly as he would in a shop, he took his wallet from his pocket. Either Wylan had gotten over-confident or he was intentionally showing a decent stash of kruge when he only handed over—

"What is this?"

"Two hundred kruge," Wylan replied.

Jesper put a hand on Wylan's shoulder, bracing to push him back when the fighting started. Whatever he meant by that stupid move, it was leading to a fight.

"Are you deaf?"

"I'm not deaf. Or stupid. You didn't know Jesper would be here. You were lucky. If Breen doesn't trust you with this big a transaction, I won't, either. That's a down payment, you tell your boss to send someone of rank to the Exchange next Thursday and we'll settle this."

"Eleven bells."

"Business hours."

Breen's men scoffed.

"Business hours," Wylan repeated, something lofty creeping into his tone, "before lunch if you can manage to roll out of your beds by then."

_Wylan._

He was going to get himself killed.

"And what's to stop us taking a little mercher boy like you for the debts and then some?"

Wylan shrugged. "Not much," he said, "I guess. But she won't like it."

"Who?"

"Me."

The word came from behind one of the men, the one to the far right who hadn't realized he had a shadow until Inej put her blade to his throat.

"You can have your debt, or you can have my friends," she said.

Saints, she was impressive.

Jesper couldn't see Inej in a romantic way. She was like a sister to him. He understood what Kaz saw, though. How fierce Inej could be. Her honed strength. Her perfect control. The way she could be absolutely terrifying even though he knew she never used more force and violence than she had to.

Her loyalty.

_The company I keep, _she had said. They might put her in tight spots, but she was there to drag them out.

"It's up to you," Wylan said, addressing the Black Tips.

Three of the men looked to their leader, the one who did the talking. He deliberated a moment. Then he nodded.

"All right," he said, "Thursday, then. The debt paid in full."

"Minus two hundred kruge," said Wylan.

With one last attempted ferocious look, the man turned, leading the others away. Only once they had cleared the corner did Jesper drop his hand from Wylan's shoulder.

"I didn't need you to do that," Jesper said.

"They were serious, Jesper," Inej said, slipping her knife into its sheath as she approached.

"I could've taken them!"

"You shouldn't have to," Wylan said.

Tense, Jesper told him, "I didn't ask you to fight my fights."

"Yes, you did," Wylan replied, and when Jesper opened his mouth to demand when he had _ever_even implied as much, Wylan continued, matter-of-fact, "That's the deal. It's the same as every time you've reached for my hand because I needed you and I mattered to you. You matter to me."

_I don't need you_. The words were harsh and false and Jesper bit them back.

He turned away. This wasn't how Jesper wanted the conversation to play out. He _knew_ he had debts, even beyond the money he borrowed from his da—the money that was repaid now, made right. He hoped. He had wanted a fight. The little 'experiments' with his power did seem to soothe his mind a bit and so did time with Wylan, but they didn't scratch that itch inside him that cried out for adventure. A brawl would have been nice.

Seeming like he needed a rescue was something he liked less.

"Jesper," Wylan said.

Jesper gestured at him: "I need space."

He needed… what? He needed to fight, he needed to drink, he needed… his hands went to the revolvers at his sides. How was he already thinking it? Saints, how was he thinking it? But he was. He needed to play a hand or two, just enough to scratch an itch.

He hated himself for wanting it, but as he headed away, he wanted nothing more.

"Jes."

"_Space_."

The words came in such a rush, Jesper wasn't sure at first that he had understood Wylan properly: "That'll make it very difficult for me to fellate you."

Jesper stopped still in his tracks.

To _what?_ He hadn't been sure Wylan knew about that act, let alone its name. While it wasn't the same fizzle, he couldn't deny he loved hearing Wylan talk dirty to him. A part of him wanted to hold onto his frustration, but if he did, he would miss the blush he knew would be painting Wylan's cheeks right now.

Jesper turned.

He was not disappointed.

Even Inej was staring.

The merch was gone. No more proud posture, raised chin, serious face. No more of the teenage boy who climbed onto a ship and gave its captain orders or stood up to admittedly low-level gangsters. In his place was someone with his pink face turned down and a half-smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Embarrassed, but not sorry.

Jesper closed the distance between them in seconds. They could deal with his smarting pride in a moment, for now, something else was happening that he was far keener on being part of.

"Wy, look at me."

Wylan did. His blush deepened, but his eyes lit. If Inej weren't there, Jesper might have pushed him against the wall and kissed him breathless. For now, he settled for ghosting his hand over Wylan's shoulder, barely any pressure—not to hurt him, to remind him of that morning. It might not be the fizzle of a fight, but the crackling air between the two of them was nothing to scoff at.

"I…" Wylan said. "I… was…"

Jesper kissed him once, gently. "Wylan Van Eck, you are priceless." A high compliment by Kerch standards. Turning to Inej, he said, "Wylan's buying us all waffles. And I _don't _need you paying my debts."

He knew it was a mistake as soon as he said it. They could have moved on, but he picked a fight. Wylan raised his chin again, the way he did when he was being stubborn and thought he was right.

"If I don't pay, you're still living under them. Something's going on—there's no way you had much more than that in debt. I don't know why the Black Tips bought up your debts and I don't know who Breen is. All I know is he thinks he can hurt you. If all I have to protect you with is kruge, then—at least I have that. Now you won't be able to tease me about running up a tab."

"Not for another month or two," Jesper replied, setting himself at a very high price to make light of this. He reminded himself that he didn't want to fight. The prospect of a fistfight excited him, but the prospect of an argument with Wylan stirred up the beginnings of shame.

"Four."

"Six weeks and you're getting a bargain! See, I can play 'merchants and shopkeepers', too."

Wylan laughed, a sound Jesper hadn't known he needed to hear, and said, "One of you will have to lead because I don't know where to get the best waffles in Ketterdam."

"I do," Jesper said.

"I trust you," Inej said, something else he hadn't realized he needed to hear, even if only about waffles.

Along the way, Jesper found his mind drifting back to that earlier thought. Pushing Wylan against the wall and kissing him. He would have liked that. He'd talk to Wylan about it first, though. Wylan was strong in his own way, Jesper had seen Kaz push him and get a furious glare in response, but it wasn't about what he could handle. It was about what he would enjoy. Jesper would ask, find out if Wylan would like that.

In the meantime he was satisfied putting an arm around his shoulders and pulling him close. Wylan settled against Jesper, tapping his arm gently three times before going still.

He knew a place that made savory waffles. It was ridiculous, but somehow delightful, and the three of them took their waffles and went to sit on a bench near the canal. It was far enough off the water to be nice.

"What are the Saints?" Wylan asked.

Inej and Jesper both gave him curious looks. What sort of question was that?

Wylan shrugged. "I was never taught," he said. "I only learned the Books of Ghezen, not the Saints. Like—Sankt Lizabeta?"

"Sankta Lizabeta," Inej corrected.

"Sankta Lizabeta. Who was she? Why is her symbol the rose?"

"How do you know her symbol's the rose?" Jesper asked.

"It's on Inej's knife."

Inej told the story.

"When Lizabeta was 18, raiders came to Ravka's shores. Everyone was afraid, not only in her town, everywhere in West Ravka. They went to sleep afraid. Some woke up afraid, too, but not Lizabeta. She woke up grateful. She knew she had survived another night. She knew the sky was beautiful and clear and the grass was green and sweet. Sankta Lizabeta was scared like everyone else, but she didn't live in fear. When the raiders reached her town, most of the villagers hid, but Lizabeta faced the raiders in a field of white roses. She begged for mercy, but they refused to listen."

"Shockingly," Jesper added.

Wylan shushed him. Jesper's attention had been torn between Inej and his waffle; now he noticed the rapt expression on Wylan's face, his eyes wide and shining.

Jesper knew Inej's version of the story was embellished. He was not especially religious, but had spent enough time in church with his da to know the story tended to focus more on the miracle than on the girl herself.

He looked again at his friends. Inej was looking off, wrapped up in her story. Wylan was looking at Inej. He hadn't even turned away to shush Jesper. They both looked so meaningful, Jesper kept his comments to himself.

"Lizabeta didn't run or cry. She fell to her knees and prayed, even with the men bearing down on her, even when she felt their footsteps shake the ground. Even when she could smell them coming, their sweat, their last meal on their breath… she wasn't scared. She wasn't afraid of the men."

Jesper didn't notice it until Wylan placed his waffle in his lap and his hands on Inej's. She glanced at him and smiled, the tension in her shoulders lessening.

"Maybe Sankta Lizabeta was very brave," Wylan said softly, "but she was scared at the same time."

"Maybe she wasn't scared at all. Maybe that was why the gods heard her prayer and sent a swarm of bees to stop the raiders. They saved her whole town."

"Maybe the Saints only had one purpose," Jesper suggested.

"Jesper," Inej scolded.

"Well they did all die," he pointed out. "Lizabeta was drawn and quartered by the next village over when she couldn't repeat her miracle."

"How did they know she couldn't?" Wylan asked.

"I assume the raiders came," Jesper said.

"If the raiders came, they all would have been too dead to kill Lizabeta," Wylan said. "Maybe they killed her because they were afraid of her."

"Maybe they didn't understand that a miracle is not like flint and steel to be struck at a moment's notice," Inej said.

"Maybe they didn't kill her at all and she ran away because her village was full of cowards who left her to face the raiders alone," Jesper said.

"Then how did the roses turn red?" Inej replied.

Jesper shrugged. "They could've always been red."

"From the field where she prayed?" Wylan asked.

"Yes, the roses where Lizabeta prayed," Jesper explained, "they were white but turned red with her blood. If you two don't want your waffles, I'll eat them."

The reminder was enough for both of them to take a bite, though after he had swallowed, Wylan did say, "We can have seconds if you're still hungry."

"Okay," chorused Jesper and Inej.


	15. Sankta

Trigger warning: brief mentions of physical abuse and intimidation

* * *

"Trust me," Jesper said, and Wylan wasn't in a position to ask questions. After last night, he owed Jesper everything and wanted to do something for him. This wasn't quite what he had in mind… but it was what Jesper wanted.

Wylan just nodded.

"The keys are in the bedroom."

So they went upstairs and Wylan handed over the key to his father's liquor cabinet.

His liquor cabinet, but he didn't drink the strong stuff. He never had a taste for it and lost the want for such a taste after that first attempt. It had been bad going down, gave him a warm float far from what he hated for a while, then came back up with his dinner.

Jesper took the key.

Wylan wished he hadn't. Partly that was selfish: he wanted nothing more than to lie down next to Jesper right now. Partly it was out of concern. Was this about what happened at the docks? He knew it wasn't fully resolved, not for Jesper, but there had to be a better way to address that! And partly it was anger at himself that he had made Jesper feel like whatever he was working through, he needed to do it alone.

"I'll be back later. Don't worry, starlight."

Wylan nodded. He could feel how reserved Jesper was, he knew there was something he wasn't saying, but he couldn't ask.

He couldn't say, _Jes, are you gambling?_ Couldn't say, _It's never just one hand of cards or one spin of the wheel_. He couldn't do that… because he was afraid he had pushed Jesper away. Maybe that final straw had been that instead of laughing together last night they had been tense and distant, or that he followed up a tough night with that stupid display at the docks. He _knew_ this was foreign for Jesper, he _knew_ Jesper was coming into a different way of living… maybe he just needed a break…

"Take care, Jes."

Jesper set his hand on Wylan's cheek. Wylan felt himself flooded with warmth just from that gentle touch, and wished he could do that. He wished he knew how to make the world disappear into a touch or could think of a nickname for Jesper. 'Jes' was fine, but it didn't measure up with Jesper's half-dozen surprising, endearing titles he threw out so easily.

"Always do," Jesper said.

One kiss and he was gone.

Wylan listened to Jesper's footsteps, heard him head downstairs. Heard the door open and close as he left.

After their conversation over that night's waffles, he had wanted to suggest Jesper should talk to Inej, just to check in on her. Sometimes just knowing someone cared enough to check in meant a lot.

It should have been Jesper. He and Inej had history, a longer friendship. They _were_ friends, while Wylan was more an acquaintance-slash-fan. Even if they didn't, Jesper was wonderful. He knew how to make someone feel at ease, heard, safe.

Wylan took a deep breath.

Jesper wasn't here. So Wylan would try.

As he approached her room, he heard the muffled sounds of crying. Something in his belly clenched. She needed a friend. Jesper should… but… but thinking that wasn't fair to Jesper. He needed his space, too.

Wylan took another slow breath. Inej deserved a friend right now, but an acquaintance was better than being alone.

He knocked softly.

"Inej, it's Wylan."

She didn't reply.

"Um… are you… do you want company?"

There was no reply and no sound from within the room, but this was Inej and he wasn't entirely surprised to hear the door unlock. The room was dim, but the lamp glowed, keeping true darkness at bay.

"Come in," Inej said.

Wylan had never seen her crying before. It made him ache that she was hurting; he wanted to apologize immediately for what he said earlier, but that would make the conversation about him.

Inej closed the door behind him and went to sit on the bed.

"Come sit with me," she said.

He did, sitting next to her and taking her hand.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked.

Inej was quiet. Sniffled, but didn't speak.

"I could sing something. If you'd like that."

"I'd like that."

So Wylan sang her a Kaelish ballad. He didn't know any Suli songs and he had never done especially well with Ravkan, but maybe those would have made her feel even worse.

By the second song, Inej was leaning against Wylan. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, silently promising them both that as long as she was here, as long as he _could_, he would do his best for her.

He wasn't certain about putting his arm around her—would she like that? Would that be okay?

So he asked.

"Is this okay?"

It was what Jesper asked him that morning. Wylan remembered what it had done for him. He had been nervous—wasn't it normal to be nervous in a new situation? He had not known what was going to happen. He hadn't known if he was prepared for it. He hadn't wanted to do a bad job of… whatever it was… but Jesper had asked. He had told Wylan that he could stop this at any time. It made Wylan feel much more comfortable.

Hopefully Inej would feel the same.

"It is," she said. "When did you know about the Menagerie?"

"At the Ice Court. Before I drew the tattoo." For once, Wylan Van Eck hadn't asked a single question. He had known this would be painful for Inej, that it wasn't the time.

Inej nodded.

Would it help to mention that he didn't have those feelings for women? No—no, that wasn't the point. He only meant he didn't see her that way, as a body to be bought or sold… but neither did anyone else. Neither did Jesper, Kaz, or Nina, and neither had Matthias, all of whom _did_ have those feelings for women. It was entirely irrelevant.

"I think you're the best person I've ever known," Wylan said. It wasn't an 'I think' like 'this is what I believe', but like something he was actually in that moment contemplating. "Is it… is it hard for you to be here? In his house?"

He asked to give her a chance to tell him the truth, but to his surprise, Inej replied, "No. It doesn't really feel like his house. I was only here with him when Kaz and I took the DeKappel and he was asleep."

Wylan considered that.

"What happened to him, was it enough?"

Wylan didn't know the details.

Wylan didn't _need_ to know the details.

He knew what sort of man Jan Van Eck was, what he would have been willing to do to someone he considered a nobody.

Inej nodded. "It was enough," she said. "He can't hurt anyone else."

Wylan was inclined to agree. His mama, his baby brother or sister, Jesper, Inej—broader, yes. Jan Van Eck had a significant reach. But Wylan thought first of his family.

"He was so cross about the DeKappel. You and Kaz, you bested him first and last."

Wylan had spent most of the next three days hiding upstairs on the servants' floor and he had barely stopped grinning the entire time. He didn't know what happened to the DeKappel—not at the time—but his father had been so proud of it, had bragged so heavily about his unbeatable security system. He was _so_ cross.

"Kaz would be pleased," Inej offered, and her tone suggested maybe she was… but not as much as Wylan was, not as much as Kaz would be. "He didn't hurt you, did he?"

"Kaz? He would push me, but no more than anyone else."

"Your father. About the painting."

"Oh—no, of course not. I had nothing to do with that, so why would he hurt me?"

Inej shook her head. "You are a terrible liar."

Wylan looked away. She wasn't looking at him, but he still looked away. "I am. He was in a foul mood and he hi—yes. It was worth it to see someone outdo him, though."

He remembered. A hand clamped hard on his arm, bruising. Low, venomous words for the coward hiding in his own home. The hymnal in front of him. His father breathing down his neck. _This is not complicated, Wylan, a child could manage. _Not knowing what Jan would do, scared because it could be anything…

Wylan closed his eyes and took as deep a breath as he could manage. Another. Inej was still resting under his arm, though he felt the tension in her now.

He didn't think an apology would help.

"It's okay," Wylan said. He meant to comfort _her_!

_Pathetic. _His father's voice automatically sounded in his head.

He intentionally sought another voice, another evaluation of Wylan: _brilliant._ It wasn't, but that was enough to quiet his father's voice.

"It helped a lot when I talked about it. If you want to talk, I can listen. I could never think anything bad of you."

"I don't want to talk about it."

So they sat in silence for a while.

"Inej?" Wylan asked softly. A 'may I speak seriously' question.

"Mm?"

"One day," halting, unsure, aware this might be just right or incredibly hurtful, "people will tithe to Sankta Inej. Miracles will be worked in her name for all the girls and boys who no one else sees, the big ones, but little ones, too. Kids who have to cry quietly but still feel a hand on their shoulder. No one will feel invisible to her."

He wasn't teasing. If there was any such thing as a living Saint, then it was embodied in Inej—who was steady and patient and good through and through. And if anyone had true need of a Saint, it was children with no one to protect them.

Wylan meant what he said, but felt Inej shudder against him with a jolt of worry. Had he said the wrong thing? He didn't mean the Saints didn't care about her, too! As Inej started to weep again, Wylan's mind struggled to find the right words.

She squeezed his hand. "Thank you, Wylan."

It was okay.

"You're welcome," he said.

When she felt ready to sleep, Wylan offered to stay, to hold her hand or sing to her until she drifted off. She accepted the offer—but stopped him when he reached for her lamp.

"Leave it," she said, "please."

"Of course. Sleep well, Sankta."

After she was asleep, he left the room as quietly as he could, but he paused in the doorway. He paused to look back. Inej was sleeping with her back turned to the lamp. It cast her face in shadows, but gave enough light to show the furrow in her brow even as she slept.

It wasn't fair. Everything she had been through—it wasn't fair.

Shaking his head, Wylan turned to go and stubbed his toe hard on the doorjamb. He bit his lip to keep from crying out. That _hurt!_

Once the door was closed behind him, he felt keenly alone. Inej was asleep. Jesper was gone—was _out_, he would be back, but he was out. For now.

Wylan told himself that was just as well because there was something he needed to take care of. He stripped the sheet off the bed and laid it out on the floor, then set up his sketchpad. He meant to deal with this earlier. Things just kept coming up and—he would address it now.

He drew ships.

The number of his father's ships that went down had been bothering Wylan. It bothered him for Inej, too. She would be taking risks and he knew that was her choice to make, but what if he could minimize some of them? Usually he designed smaller things. He could make a firework in any color, boost a magnetic pull… this was big, and Wylan knew it would take time.

It was worth it. He didn't like the idea that he would be responsible for men and women dying. He already had been, but that was no reason to continue doing so. Abandoning some routes was an option, but what if they could make a better boat instead?

So he sketched. He sketched ships he had seen in the harbor. He sketched the inside of ships he had traveled on, larger ships as best he recalled from his childhood and the smaller _Ferolind_. All he aimed for yet was understanding.

He had filled pages when he decided he was done for the evening. He wasn't certain yet, but an idea might have been starting to take shape in his mind.

Wylan closed his sketchpad. He put his pens away. He splashed ink down the sheet, regarded it, then splashed more ink before capping his inkwell.

He picked up the sheet and the inkwell and took both into the bathroom. The whole business was concluded quite carefully; the stains were sufficient and Wylan didn't want them to spread. He ran the water over the inkwell first, rinsing the last drops. It gave the ruined sheet more time to set.

Once he was sure the sheet was ruined, Wylan did his best to "salvage" it. He rinsed the ink—damage done of course. Regarded the sheet.

Perfect.

Now it just looked like a sheet someone had stained with ink, a sheet that had been nice, a rather pleasant yellow. The trouble was it had been a rather pleasant yellow with a blaze where a troubled Fabrikator ripped the color.

Wylan planned to speak to Jesper about it soon. When the time was right. For now, he retrieved another sheet, pausing briefly outside Inej's door. Good: she was asleep.

He wasn't going to make someone else clean up a mess he intentionally made, especially during their off hours. He knew perfectly well that they worked quite hard. Instead, he worked at making the bed himself. He had seen how the corners looked when he removed the sheet. Tugged the sheet even. Folded the corners down. And again. At one point, as he decided there was nothing for it but to completely start over, he had thought about just lying down without a sheet—was that really so bad for one night?—but this was Jesper's bed, too.

With the sheet ruined and the bed made, Wylan put out the lamp, crawled under the covers, and waited. He used the time to try to think up nicknames for Jesper.

Maybe he should use a personal quality? But the first thing that came to mind was that Jesper was just… he was bright. He brightened up the room. Unfortunately Jesper had already laid claim to Sunshine and Starlight for Wylan—both of which, Wylan thought, actually suited Jesper far better, but he didn't think he would be able to convince Jesper to give them up.

What else was bright? Fires? Firelight? No, that was both silly and too close to Starlight. Firefly. That was dumb. Fire… flame… glowing… stuff?

Wylan was really bad at this. He knew that. He couldn't even _imagine_ saying most of this without blushing.

Handsome?

Uncreative, but accurate. Also, something Wylan couldn't say without blushing. It was objectively true, but too… well… too _flirtatious_!


	16. Lies and Necessities

_Trust me.___

__I'll be back later. __

__Don't worry.__

Jesper knew when he left that Wylan wasn't fulfilling his part of the deal. His eyes had been soft, concerned, and his lips parted just slightly around questions he struggled not to ask. He looked lost, teetering so carefully on the brink of wounded, Jesper had been tempted to just stay. He had been tempted in more ways than one if he was being completely honest.

But this needed to happen tonight, so Jesper grinned a confident grin and left with a promise to return. He grabbed a bottle from Van Eck's drinks cabinet—something strong, but not too good—and headed out.

Jesper had no intention of drinking the entire bottle himself.

No… he fully intended to share.

Jesper left with time enough to catch his new friend the hostler, and it didn't take more than stating where the drink came from to coax the man into swigging from the bottle.

Didn't take more than a couple of too-loud laughs and a suggestion—"Let's head down to the canal, bit more private."

"I know a spot."

The night was thick with fog. It carried sounds, but distorted them, too, and the boathouse gave privacy enough that Jesper had no concerns about being overheard. Added bonus of the fog, in addition to the hostler's personality: no one was likely to look for the man, and if they did, they wouldn't easily spot him.

This—for some—was a night for heavy drinking. Jesper knew he didn't hold his liquor well and only pretended, bringing the bottle up and letting the drink slosh against his lips.

Jan Van Eck wasn't coming home. The past few days had made that clear. Knowing the man's preference for Jan over his son, Jesper waited until he was unsteady to raise the subject: "Doesn't seem like Mister Van Eck is coming back any time soon."

The hostler expressed his disgust by spitting on the ground. "Stuck with the brat."

_Not for long,_ Jesper silently assured the man.

"Dunno what someone like you sees in him. He doesn' have a right t' th… money."

He was slurring now.

Good.

"There's more to him than that," Jesper said.

"Ahyeah?" the hostler asked.

_Damn_. Little too much honesty in his tone there.

Jesper took a real drink, letting the whiskey coat his throat like that could keep the words from touching him. He knew what he was about to say and hated the person who was saying it—but he hated the person believing it more.

"Flautist," Jesper prompted. "Talented hands, and he makes the sweetest sounds."

_I hate you. _

"Yeah?" the hostler asked.

_Saints, I don't mean this. I _**_don't,_**_ Wylan._

It wasn't untrue. Jesper loved Wylan's gasps and whimpers when Jesper kissed him or pulled him close or sucked bruises down his shoulder. Jesper was well aware this was all new to Wylan. It was theirs, intimate. And because Wylan had no prior experience, he vocalized each newly discovered note of pleasure, gratifying Jesper immensely.

He felt the bad kind of filthy even mentioning this to anyone else.

He had to sell it. Took another sip, felt it burn.

At least, Jesper thought, he could lie.

"Whimpers like a kicked puppy."

The hostler laughed. "Yeah, he begs nice."

_I hate you._

"Bet you heard how he squeals like a little girl."

_**I hate you.**_

In fact he had never hated anyone more. It took a good deal for someone to offer Jesper a bet and have him reply with only the desire to punch him in the face.

"You… huh?"

Luckily the hostler was too caught up in his own amusement to notice that Jesper's posture was less relaxed than it was meant to be. How many jobs had he followed Kaz on, how many times had he affected some conceit or another? It had never been this bad. Giving up his babies in Club Cumulus hadn't been this bad. At least Smeet saw their value.

_Just confess it already.___

"Nah, he's all yours. Boy's a imbsile… imbess…"

Quite the word to stumble over.

Giggling now, the hostler simplified: "Can't read a word. Ussd'a help the ol' man… teach th' idiot."

_Watch who you're calling an idiot._

"Oh, look at that," Jesper said, pointing vaguely into the dark canal water.

"Huh?"

The hostler leaned forward.

"See, just there."

He leaned in further.

Jesper put a hand on his back and shoved him. He crouched by the water, waiting to see if the hostler would make his way to the surface again. When he did, gasping, Jesper placed a hand on his head and shoved it under.

This would have been an excellent time to fight for one's life. Unfortunately the hostler had half a bottle of whiskey down his throat and at least two mouthfuls of canal water chasing it. Jesper held him down until the bubbles stopped. It didn't take long.

_Can I come with you?___

__Not today.__

Jesper had been young, but old enough to know when something unusual was happening. Da leaving the farm in the late afternoon, for example, was unusual. He had said something in passing that made clear he was headed into town. Naturally, Jesper wanted to go.

He had been well prepared to pout about it.

_I need my little rabbit._

All prepared to pout, but Ma scooped him up and she had that look on her face promising adventures.

_Take care, Colm,_ she had said.

Jesper looked between his parents. Whatever Da was doing, it was serious. But then—he had known that when Da came in early, when he said he needed to go… when he had that look on his face. There was a set to his jaw, something too much in the way he looked at Jesper. Like this was more than an errand, this was important.

All of which only made Jesper considerably more curious.

That night, Jesper had done the logical thing. After Ma tucked him into bed, he stayed awake. It wasn't difficult. The difficult part was staying still in bed so Ma thought he had fallen asleep already. He had stayed there faking sleep until he heard slow hoofbeats outside. The pause while Da looked after the horse. Only then did Jesper slip out of bed.

_Well?___

__It's handled, Aditi. The boy is safe.__

'The boy'? Did that mean him? When had he not been safe?

_The tailor?___

__He'll live, and we left his hands untouched. How's Jes?__

__He's fine, sleeping. He asked about where you went tonight. I don't want him to know about this.__

Jesper had been bothered by that—had his da done something bad? But Ma didn't sound angry with him. (Jesper would know.) Unable to reconcile it, Jesper crept back to bed and snuggled under the covers, doing a passable impersonation of sleep when Da looked in on him.

It wasn't until years later that he was able to put all the pieces together, not until the tailor took on a new apprentice, a fragile girl who had to be taken off her family's farm because the pollen made her lungs close up. She lasted three months. After she was buried in the boneyard, the tailor turned up beaten to death. No one investigated.

Da had not helped kill the man, Jesper knew that, but he had taken heavily what happened to him. Jesper found him outside, watching the storm roll in. Colm had looked at him for a long moment, put a hand on his head, then quietly hugged Jesper. It wasn't a normal hug. Jesper couldn't explain why, but he knew him being here was comforting Da, despite the fact it was Jesper being hugged.

_That's where you went, isn't it, Da? When I was little, you went out that night? You told Ma you didn't touch his hands…___

__Aye, that's where I was. We thought we'd sent him the message clear enough, but…__

__You think you should've killed him?__ Jesper had asked. __

__I don't know,__ Colm admitted. _Your ma wouldn't have approved of that, but maybe if she knew it could have saved another child… I don't know._

They never talked about that night again, though Jesper knew Colm was troubled by it. He had turned the idea over and over in his head: first that his da had been part of a posse once, second that some of those same men had gone back and cleaned up their mistakes.

Jesper thought about it as he carefully made his way back to the mansion on Geldstraat. He kept his steps to the path, to stones where he could, even though there was every reason for Jesper's footprints to be here on the path outside his home.

Jan Van Eck was beyond his reach now.

The memories built into this stupid, comfortable, sprawling old place, they would take time to defeat. New memories could take their place. With time.

But Wylan didn't need to wake up every morning knowing he would see the man who had beaten him. Who had liked it. Who, if he found two brain cells to rub together, might have used Wylan's secret to any nefarious end. Today would be the last time Wylan ever had to fear him.

There was a personal investment as well, Jesper was quite happy with his new life and did not want to risk losing it.

And it was right. It was just _right_ to pay back an abuser.

Jesper's heart had calmed by the time he reached their bedroom.

He paused for a few seconds. His eyes adjusted to the darkness and he could just make out Wylan, the steady rise and fall of his chest.

_It will get better,_ Jesper swore silently.

Maybe because he was tired, because he was a touch tipsy, or just because he wanted to minimize the time between now and being in bed, he didn't worry about his nightshirt. Just carefully, quietly removed his boots, socks, trousers, shirt. Found the bed. Found his prince who woke up in the wrong story, who woke up back in the right story and didn't know who he was anymore.

Jesper skipped the pillows. He rested his head on Wylan's chest instead, wrapped an arm across him. Wylan's breathing remained steady. He was asleep. Jesper wasn't sure if that was better or worse—he wouldn't have minded hearing Wylan's voice, but didn't know how to explain where he had been.

Even as he settled against him, Jesper felt a discordance. He heard his own words echoed. The lewd things he hadn't wanted to say.

And he said the only thing that could drive those memories out.

"I love you, Wy."

Wylan's breath caught audibly.

"…you're awake, aren't you?"

"Uh…"

"Dammit."

"I'm sorry!"

Jesper would have pulled him close if he had not been already halfway on top of Wylan.

"I was waiting for you, I—"

It wasn't about that.

"The first time you heard me say that was supposed to be more romantic."

"I'm… I didn't…"

"Shh," Jesper murmured. "You're doing fine, babe."

Wylan put an arm around Jesper and said in a breathless rush, "'kay but I love you too."


	17. Aftermath

Jesper was in a half-waking place, just starting to work a few small stretches to ease the sleepy stiffness from his muscles, when the knock came at the door.

His eyes flew open. He knew what this was about. A merchant's household staff didn't go knocking on his bedroom door for nothing. There were loads of reasons someone might knock on Jesper's bedroom door, but not Wylan's.

Jesper wasn't sorry for what he did last night. That man deserved what he got. It had seemed like a perfectly reasonable thing to do yesterday. Today, after a good night's sleep, he was worried—would Wylan approve? He wasn't entirely sensible about these things.

Righteous. He was righteous. (Was a much nicer phrasing than "inexplicably uptight about murder".)

"Mister Wylan!"

Wylan groaned. Apparently he wasn't ready to wake up, but this wouldn't wait. Jesper sat up and gave Wylan's shoulder a shake.

"Get up," he mumbled.

"Yeah," Wylan agreed, blearily pushing himself into a sitting position. Looking to the door, he called, "Yes?"

"I'm sorry, Mister Wylan, but there's been an incident."

Jesper turned, letting his legs fall over the side of the bed. He would have liked to spend more time under the covers, but he knew Wylan would have to deal with Important Mercher Business. And he wasn't sure he wanted to see Wylan's face just now, not if he was—what? Angry. Disappointed. Jesper drummed his fingers against his knees.

"One of the girls found Prior this morning, he's passed on. He drowned last night. He had been drinking. It looks like he broke into your f… into your liquor cabinet."

"Oh," Wylan said. "All right. I… I'll be there in just a few minutes, thank you."

Was he bothered by the news? Jesper wasn't sure. Maybe he was just tired. It was still early.

He had to know, didn't he?

Jesper had been out late.

He had taken the key to the liquor cabinet.

Drumming faster now, Jesper wondered if it wouldn't be worth finding a reason to get out of the mansion today, out of Geldin District. Not to get himself into any trouble. Maybe he would play a few hands, just enough to—

After the door had closed and they were alone, Wylan all but plastered himself to Jesper's back, arms wrapping around him.

"Thank you," he gasped. Between kisses dropped on Jesper's shoulder: "Thank you, thank you, Jesper."

Jesper reached up to squeeze Wylan's hands. His breathing steadied some.

"Anything for you."

"Thank you."

"Hey." Jesper twisted just enough to slide an arm around Wylan's waist and pull him closer. _Look at me right now. This is important._ It let him really look into Wylan's eyes, too, look for any disgust or anger in his face. He saw none. Relief, something else… but not disgust or anger. "Nobody hurts you. Not anymore."

Wylan gave a very serious but very small nod. "You didn't have to do that for me. I didn't… I didn't mean to push you back into this."

"It's okay."

"Are you okay?"

Jesper began to nod, then hesitated. Was he? He had killed before, but this felt different. The truth was, it bothered him some. Maybe it was the fact he planned it or coming too close…

"You did the right thing," Wylan said softly.

"Yeah?"

Wylan nodded.

"Saints," Jesper said, finally seeing what was in his eyes. "You've still been scared."

Wylan shivered and touched his neck. He made several attempts before he got the words out: "He hurt me, Jes. He liked hurting me."

The words assuaged some of Jesper's guilt. The tone assuaged the rest. Not only was the hostler an objectively bad person, Jesper heard the pain the man had caused.

Wylan rested his hand on Jesper's cheek. Jesper felt the tremor, but leaned in anyway.

"Yes, I've still been scared," Wylan said, "and I never would have asked you to do this, but I'm grateful you did. I'm so lucky to have you."

A soft sigh escaped Jesper's lips. He didn't fully understand why he felt the way he did, but—he could just about melt into those words. So long he had wanted this. All his time in the Dregs, watching, waiting for someone—someone particular, someone special—to tell him…

Wylan's thumb brushed Jesper's cheek.

"Thank you, Jesper."

It was the fifth time he had said that, but the tone was different now. Not hectic, not desperate. Quiet and genuine.

Another kiss, a gentle press of Wylan's mouth against him.

"I need to go be a merch, but I'd rather stay here with you all day."

Regretfully, Jesper recognized that Wylan getting out of bed now was the right choice.

"And you need trousers."

"You do, too."

"I like you without, though."

He couldn't hide his surprise—not that Wylan liked him without trousers, but that he would say it!

"Likewise, sunshine."

Jesper looked for something to wear, ideally something so bright and colorful it offended everyone else on Geldstraat. Luckily that meant just about anything he owned. He was torn between the green paisley trousers and the red lattice print trousers. They were both delightful. Obviously. After a moment, he picked the green.

"How did you know?"

At the question, and at the answer, Jesper's mood dipped. He turned to look at Wylan. He looked considerably more awake as he regarded Jesper for a long moment. Then he turned away and likewise went to pick out something to wear, unlike Jesper considering shades from smoke grey to charcoal black. Mercher colors.

"Want me to turn around?"

"It's… it's okay if you want to look."

Jesper raised an eyebrow. Wylan didn't turn to face him, but if he was offering, who was Jesper to turn him down? He watched Wylan remove his nightshirt. The ridges of his spine and freckles dusting his curled shoulders…

The little shivers.

"I'm not looking. I told you, you don't need to do anything you're not ready for."

Jesper turned his back and focused on buttoning his waistcoat. He couldn't talk about this and look at half-naked Wylan even if Wylan had been ready. He clearly wasn't.

"The scars on the horses' backs. That's how I knew."

That was no way to train up an animal. For most of his life, Jesper had been around horses. They were a practicality on the farm; one didn't hop a gondel in Novyi Zem. He knew how to treat a horse, and it wasn't with a whip that left lasting marks.

"You said he had someone else involved and I knew who would hurt an innocent."

Wylan sighed. "I never understood," he said. Jesper felt a spark of hope—was Wylan questioning what his father had done to him? Unprompted?—then he continued, "at Caryeva, he liked to see spirit in a foal. Then he would bring it home…"

And he would break it.

Which was the most Jan Van Eck thing Jesper had ever heard.

"Hey, beautiful."

Wylan turned to him, still buttoning the last buttons of his shirt.

"I said beautiful and you looked," Jesper said, pleased with himself. It would take time… but they had time for him to slowly replace Wylan's bad memories with positive ones. Good words to drive out the bad.

"I… I wanted to watch you talk to yourself."

Sometimes Jesper was torn. Wylan needed and deserved more confidence, but the way he stammered and blushed when he tried to flirt was so endearing Jesper could actually feel it lodging in his chest. He just wanted for that to happen without Wylan looking away.

Jesper grinned. "I like when you're bold."

Wylan replied but it was too soft for Jesper to make out more than the word 'rare'.

"So do it more and spoil me."

Jesper was fairly certain Wylan was smiling, but it was hard to tell with the way his shoulders came up and his head ducked lower.

"Hey."

Jesper took a step nearer. Gently, he gripped Wylan's chin and guided him into eye contact. He had seen Wylan vulnerable before. This was… different. Maybe because Wylan was vulnerable because he chose to share a part of himself. Maybe because he didn't look scared. Because it was hope shining in his bright blue eyes.

"Stay with me," Jesper said softly. _You promised, Wylan._

Wylan responded by throwing his arms around Jesper and kissing him. Like he had the first time. _Fireworks._ A sparking thread that gave him that familiar rush, adrenaline twining with the way his hands felt against Wylan, the small of his back and the silk of his hair; the taste of Wylan's mouth. Neither of them had brushed their teeth and another time Jesper might mind that.

They broke apart when neither had enough breath to keep going, but, Jesper thought giddily, they could always do that again.

Wylan was grinning with only a hint of uncertainty as he said, "Hey, handsome."

If they could have spent the rest of the day or their lives in that room, at the moment, Jesper wouldn't have objected. Unfortunately duty called. Wylan finished buttoning his shirt, tucked it in, and looked almost passably like he might have been a regular son of a merch. He didn't have a jacket that didn't look ridiculous, but he pulled a sweater over the shirt.

"That's not merch-colored," Jesper observed. "That's _red_. That's _embroidered!_"

Adornment was not very Kerch, certainly not very mercher. The rules were ridiculous, of course. Anything that was a sign of wealth could be a sign of Ghezen's favor and thus acceptable; a pin indicating one's house affiliation or job was acceptable; but the leaves knitted into Wylan's sleeves…

"Ruby and gold laurel," Wylan explained.

Ah.

"Hang on, I thought all your clothes were too big."

"I really need to go deal with—"

"Is that—"

"Ghezen's books…"

Jesper grinned. It _was_.

"Shut up."

"I didn't say anything," he said, swiftly losing the fight against laughter.

"It fits me!"

"It's actually a little long—"

"Jesper!"

Getting hold of his laughter, Jesper reached over and fixed Wylan's collar where it had been trapped under the sweater.

"You look nice," he said. "Really."

All that laughing must have damaged his credibility.

"She'll be happy to see you." Jesper would joke about a lot of things, but not about Marya.

The body, when they reached the canal, was unpleasant: water-logged and ripening. Wylan held a handkerchief over his nose and mouth in a move Jesper suspected was as much to protect himself from the smell as to hide the fact that he was not the least bit sorry to see this. He tipped the bodymen after they fished the bastard out of the water.

Jesper was unmoved. Enough time in the Barrel would do that to a man. His biggest concern was watching the evidence of his crime disappear.

On the way back inside, Wylan said, "I'll have to find someone else to care for the horses—someone who can be gentle with them."

He moved closer, sliding an arm around Jesper. He was too short for an arm around his shoulders, so Jesper put an arm around Wylan's shoulders instead, keeping him close and both their gaits just a touch unsteady.

"Hmm," Jesper mused, "where could you find someone like that?"

"Would you—"

"Yes, happily."

Wylan laughed. "At least let me _ask_!"

"You're right. Ask away."

"Would you look after the horses today?"

"Happy to."

"You don't have to, it's—"

"I like horses. The animals were one of the few parts of the farm that held my attention."

Most of farming was dull, repetitive work that only made Jesper's restlessness worse when his mind felt like it had been cooped up for hours on end. Animals were interesting. They were always changing and brought the challenge of considering both their and his perspective—why they might be agitated, for example, how he could soothe them.

"You don't have to," Wylan repeated firmly.

"I want to," Jesper retorted, only teasing him a little.

It was enough to put the topic to rest. They continued inside in silence for a minute.

Then, hesitant, "About… about what we said last night, I… I meant it."

"I did too."

Maybe it was different to say in the light. Jesper certainly felt that, even knowing that Wylan felt it, too.

"If you didn't, it's okay."

"Oh," Jesper said, stung more than he cared to admit. Had he moved too fast? Didn't Wylan _want _Jesper to love him? Or did he just not want it right now?

"No—hey, it's not like that." Wylan stepped in front of Jesper and paused. Jesper started fidgeting with the buttons on his shirt, but Wylan took his hands instead. "Jes, listen. If you were just—I know how you can be after a fight, and you'd been drinking. I just want you to be happy. If you said something you didn't mean—"

"I said what I meant, Wylan."

"Okay. I'm glad you did."

Jesper huffed, annoyed and not entirely convinced. "I know I make mistakes, but I'm not that big a podge."

The path was uneven and Wylan had to stand on tiptoe to kiss Jesper, very nearly falling on him in the process. Jesper wouldn't have objected.

"There's much more good in you than bad, Jesper Fahey."

Hearing that set something at ease in him, sparked something warmer than the weak sunlight. That wasn't how he was used to being seen. He thought of himself as the life of the party—though he was still shaken up by how thoroughly that had been debunked by his friends—or as clever, fun, a handful but worthwhile, a disaster on occasion. _Good_ was news to him.

Apparently Wylan took to heart Jesper's request for boldness.

"You sure about that?" Jesper asked.

"I'm sure." Wylan fell back beside him and took Jesper's hand. "Let's go—I should tell Miss Molenaar we may have a guest tonight."

"Giving a name?"

"No."

There was no good approach to this situation. Either Wylan told everyone the truth and let them think he was crazy for a while, or he showed up with his mother—surprise! He had opted for surprise. Jesper supported him, partly because the choice made as much sense as any, partly because he was a good boyfriend, and partly because it was going to be so hilarious to see all the reactions when Marya arrived.

Bringing Marya home was a solid 'maybe'. The visits had gone increasingly well, but nothing Jesper had ever seen told him what to expect. She wasn't mad. She wasn't whole, either.

He wondered what his da would say. He should write him.

The kitchen should have made Jesper hungry. Mostly it made him feel calm. His kitchen-related memories were jumbled up with his ma, childhood and safety and adventures. No one wove a day with adventures the way she had.

The cook wasn't there. Jesper glanced around for indications of breakfast—the kitchen didn't _make_him hungry, that didn't mean he _wasn't_ hungry.

Wylan found another distraction.

"Gavrie?"

He was crouched over something in the corner. Coming closer, Jesper saw that it was a child, curled under a blanket and shivering, his face shiny with sweat.

"Who is he?" Jesper asked softly.

"Miss Molenaar's nephew. He's really sick," Wylan observed, touching the boy's forehead.

"It's not plague."

Jesper and Wylan turned. They hadn't noticed the cook's return, but she was here now, nervous.

"It's not. They say the plague looks like death, that's a regular sickness."

Wylan nodded. "He looks so cold," he said.

The boy's eyes opened, bleary but present.

"But not plague."

"No, of course not," Jesper agreed. Especially since the plague was something Kaz and Nina invented, not a real malady. Miss Molenaar was nervous and Wylan was too distracted by the sick child to know what to say.

"Was there something you needed?" she asked.

"Does he need to stay here?" Wylan asked, not answering her question. "He'd be more comfortable in the sitting room. It's not as warm but we have thicker blankets."

The cook was staring at him. So was Jesper, though his was a different sort of staring. She was staring because this wasn't merchant behavior. If most merchants found a servant's child asleep on their settee, they might fire the servant, at the very least evict the child. Jesper was staring because this was very possibly the best Wylan he had yet seen. This kind, idealistic creature ignoring how things were done because his heart said otherwise—this was who he was meant to be.

"Miss Molenaar, may I move Gavrie?"

"I… yes, you may," she said.

"It's okay, Gavrie," Wylan told the child, lifting him carefully. Jesper had teased Wylan for not being especially strong. He had been right, but this was something Wylan needed to do. Rather than offer to help, Jesper placed a hand on Wylan's back to steady him as he climbed to his feet.

The situation was fascinating.

Wylan wasn't a very good criminal. He had learned half the skills, but never the spirit, never seemed to see the fun in a good fight—just learned to survive it.

Wylan wasn't a very good mercher. Maybe he would have a knack for the trade itself, like with the shipment of fruits they had sent to Zelver District, but he wasn't suited to the lifestyle.

He was suited to this.

He was good at this.

Jesper leaned against the doorjamb, watching Wylan set the boy down. He closed the curtains—"It's really bright in here, isn't it? That's better."—and tucked a heavy blanket around him.

Gavrie's expression shifted to what might have been a smile. "Soft," he murmured.

"It is soft," Wylan agreed. He brought the blanket a little higher, brushing it against Gavrie's cheek.

Gavrie grinned. It was weak, but it was a grin.

"Try to sleep. You'll soon feel better."

Miss Molenaar was looking at Wylan like he'd sprouted a second head—but a really pretty head, even nicer than the first. There wasn't _much_ room for improvement, Jesper readily admitted. Maybe more freckles. His freckles were nice, but he had too few of them. That was how Miss Molenaar looked at Wylan, as something inexplicable but delightful, like she didn't know what to do with him.

Jesper was rather more unsettled that he knew _exactly_ what he wanted to do with Wylan. It was too much, too soon, and Jesper knew he was falling too hard and too fast. But at the moment he, Jesper L. Fahey, the boy who never thought farther than the next hand of cards or spin of the wheel or brawl in an alley, was entirely certain he wanted to put a ring on the merchling's finger and take him to bed every night for the rest of their lives.

_Too hard, too fast,_ he told himself.

After he carefully, quietly closed the sitting room door, Wylan said, "I don't think Sveta's trained to handle illness, only injuries."

Because _of course_ that was his concern, not one person staring at him like he was an eccentric at best and another like he was the fluffiest, crispiest waffle in existence.

Miss Molenaar nodded. "Thank you."

"It's nothing. I was in the kitchen earlier to tell you we may be expecting a guest for dinner tonight."

Jesper waited until he and Wylan were alone, taking the time to try to think up what to say. He rubbed the back of his neck. The words weren't coming. Since when did he have trouble finding the words?

"He's just a little child," Wylan said. "I _know_ that's not how merchants are supposed to behave, but he's a child and he looked so cold. I won't have that in my house."

Jesper regarded him for a moment, then felt a slow smile creep over his lips.

"What?"

"You're beautiful."


	18. Not Everyone Can Aim

Jesper was a passable climber.

In other company, he might have deemed himself an excellent climber, someone with skills worth boasting—but around Inej Ghafa, 'passable' counted as high praise. The freestanding mansion on Geldstraat had advantages and challenges. There was no neighboring house to check for easier access, for example, but Jesper didn't need to worry about being spotted since he lived here.

Fingers on an eave above him, he shifted one foot off a gable, one of the decorative rooves on the mansion. This was going to be a difficult move. He lodged his foot against a small decorative gouge, and—

And his foot slipped.

Jesper felt a spark of adrenaline the heartbeat before slim, strong fingers closed around his wrist.

"I've got you."

"Inej! Fancy meeting you here!"

Inej grinned down at him and helped Jesper up onto the roof.

"Quite the view," Jesper said.

It was strange how many of the buildings he saw were grander than the Van Eck mansion; previous Van Ecks seemed the type to like being the biggest in the room. At least, Jan Van Eck had seemed that way—and a small, nasty but not unfair part of Jesper hoped he learned soon in Hellgate what it was _not_ to be the biggest. But the view from the roof showed the university, the Church of Barter, the government buildings. There were neighbors, of course, and the ocean on the horizon, but not too many people too close.

Jesper glanced at Inej with a sly grin. "Admit it, you want to climb me again. Just for the view."

She replied with a half-smile.

"It's a different city from up here."

"It's a different city from anywhere in the Geldin District," Inej replied.

"What do you do most days?" he asked. "I know Wylan goes to see Marya. I try to keep myself out of trouble here. What do you do?"

"Business," Inej said. "It's nice being here, but I can't forget the past two years. I can't just walk away."

Jesper nodded. He understood.

He had walked away from a life before.

Jesper thought back to those days at the university. It hadn't been the same Ketterdam, but it hadn't been a particularly appealing Ketterdam for him. It was quiet, studious. Dull. That Jesper would have felt the same way about the Geldin District. The Jesper he was today, however…

"I'm not better, Inej."

She led him to a chimney they could sit against, opting for the side that looked out at the ocean. It was the chilliest part of the roof, catching the clearest breeze, but that provided some relief on a warm day.

Only then did Inej ask, "Did something happen?"

Jesper sighed. He rubbed his face, then settled his hands on his thighs. His fingers were drumming ten seconds later.

"Jes, what are you thinking?"

"Thinking about him," Jesper replied, expecting that was explanation enough. "I've practiced with it a bit, done some small things, tried, but… first, I don't know what I'm doing, and second, I might not think about cards as much, but I'm not better."

Had it really only been a matter of days ago that he promised her there would be no echo? Since he promised his da the same?

A week, _maybe_.

A week and already he was sliding back into old habits.

"Why are you saying that?" Inej asked. Again: "Did something happen?"

"I didn't do anything."

"That's not what I asked…"

He sighed and stroked his guns. "For a few seconds," he began.

Stopped.

Suddenly even coming up here seemed like a ridiculous idea. Jesper looked down; from this angle he could just see the horses milling about. Keeping horses in Ketterdam was such a ridiculous affectation. Still, he had enjoyed looking after them. He had seen glimpses of their personalities—which was skittish, which was defiant, all locked beneath years of rough conditioning.

He liked working with horses. So why did he feel this way? Why had he looked for Inej?

"I want to marry Wylan."

Jesper followed up with a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob and ran a hand over his hair. He had expected Inej to laugh, but she didn't.

"That's stupid. I don't—it's barely been a week since the first time he kissed me. Things are slow but they're not normal, I don't know what normal is with him, but I want it. This morning he found out his cook had her sick kid here, so he picked up this kid, tucked him in on the sofa, and shut off the sitting room so he could rest. Saints, it was the sexiest thing I've ever—sorry," Jesper cut himself off, realizing that was taking things a bit too far.

It had been, though. Wylan being Wylan, being confident, the look on his face… _Saints_.

"Just over a week, and here I am thinking about buying a ring like a complete podge. I want to get him a puppy just to watch him being happy and adorable, then I would joke about him being similar to the puppy and he would kiss me—it's like my brain is melting."

"Oh, Jes."

"I told you," he said glumly, "I'm not better. I just shifted my attention."

Inej bumped her shoulder against his arm. "Jesper, you're not sick. You're falling in love."

"That is absurd."

"It's also accurate."

"Okay, maybe I'm falling in love, but it's too fast. I shouldn't be falling in love."

"What do you like about Wylan?"

Jesper considered. There was a lot to like, and he needed a moment to decide where to start.

"You're smiling," Inej said. "You're smiling just thinking about him."

"It's too soon," Jesper said. Didn't she see that? "Besides, he doesn't feel that way about me."

"You don't read people very well."

"You've mentioned that before."

On the _Ferolind_—and he acknowledged she had been correct. Back when Jesper thought Nina and Matthias couldn't stand each other, Inej had seen that they were in love.

This was not the same thing.

"It can't last. That's the wound. I want to think it will, but it can't. He doesn't want it," Jesper said. Inej opened her mouth, and he was quick to add, "He told me."

She frowned. "Wylan said that?"

Jesper nodded.

"He said he didn't want to be with you?"

"He—not exactly—I said I loved him." Did she think he had been foolish? He probably had. Saying he loved Wylan, _telling Wylan that_? It was too much! "And he said he loved me, but he gave me a chance to take it back. He said if I just said it because I was drunk—he _implied_ if I said it because I was drunk—I could take it back. I'd had a few drinks. I wasn't drunk. He was just making an excuse."

And _Saints_ it stung.

"Kaz took off his gloves to tie a bandage for me," Inej said, and Jesper did not like the jolt of envy he felt, but he couldn't deny he felt it. "Nina would've done it without a second thought. You would've done it without a second thought. I know how hard that was for Kaz. That's something he was willing to do for me, and because it was him, it mattered."

Jesper had always wanted more than Kaz gave him and he knew Inej had, too. He was happy for Inej that Kaz had been willing to try, to take that step for her, and tried to quell the still-present envy he felt. Why was he jealous? He had Wylan. He didn't _want_ Kaz, he didn't want someone who never wanted him that way. Yes Kaz was brilliant and enigmatic, yes he had eyes that could look shivers of ice straight into a man's soul—

_Shit._

He still wanted Kaz.

But… _Wylan._ Jesper could watch Kaz all he wanted and feel like Kaz took something just by looking back at him, but when Wylan looked at Jesper, there was always gentleness there, a question, an invitation. When Wylan looked at Jesper, it felt like something given. All those times Kaz only had a snarl or a sharp word no matter what Jesper did, and it was Wylan who approved, who actually _liked_Jesper.

Why had he ever fallen in love for Kaz Brekker? And why couldn't he climb out of it?

It wasn't the sort of love that wanted kissing and cuddling. It was Kaz's esteem he wanted—something Jesper yearned for but no longer hoped for.

"It's hard to love people after you've been hurt."

Jesper refocused his thoughts on the present: "You mean that tutor he was with?"

Inej raised her eyebrows, and Jesper knew he had entirely missed the point. He still wasn't sure what the point was, but he had missed it.

"I've seen you two together. He's crazy about you. Jesper… maybe Wylan doesn't think he's worth loving."

"But that's ridiculous! He's so thoughtful and smart… talented… beautiful… he tries so hard and he always looks for the good—what? Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Because you're my friend and you're in love."

Jesper was proud of the one and conflicted on the other, but kept that to himself.

"You show your friends they matter to you in big ways. Wylan's more reserved. He'll show you in different ways. Learn to look for them, I promise you'll be happier if you do."

Jesper thought about that. He thought about Wylan snuggled against him at night, stealing glances at him over dinner, asking how he was and pushing him to use his stupid zowa abilities.

"He gave me a drawing."

Inej didn't reply, but her expression said she heard and was interested.

"It was in my pocket this morning—but that doesn't mean…"

"It means something."

"Or it's just a gift."

"Maybe," Inej agreed. "Maybe one of the wealthiest men in Ketterdam, who could buy you whatever you asked for, decided to make you something personal instead. What was it of? The drawing?"

"Not your business!"

It was his revolvers. Jesper wasn't sure how a person made something like that happen with nothing but a pencil.

"All right. Just a drawing, then. There's that tapping thing he does."

"Tapping thing?"

"Like this." Inej demonstrated, tapping three times on Jesper's arm.

Jesper hadn't noticed before, but now that she mentioned it, Wylan had done that a few times in the past days.

He shrugged. "He probably does that to everyone."

Inej responded with a look.

"Oh." Jesper sighed. Maybe there were things he hadn't noticed. "Do you think I'm good enough for him?"

Inej replied, "I think he's good enough for you. Being in love doesn't mean you're indulging the wound."

"I thought about _marrying_ him. Normal people don't have those thoughts."

She laughed, not unkindly. "Oh, Jes…"

He turned to her, surprised by the implication. "Have you ever thought about that?"

"I used to," she said, "before the Menagerie. I thought about which routes we would travel. Actually… I planned a lot about which routes we would travel, so I could see new places but we would still cross paths with Mama and Papa several times a year. We were going to start our own caravan. I thought about having children, I was going to have three daughters and my feet weren't going to swell at all. Any time I had feelings for a boy, I would ask myself if he fit that picture. Would I want to spend my life beside him on the road? Could I imagine him making the skillet bread when I was pregnant and needed to lie down in the afternoon?"

Jesper had never known Inej wanted any of that. He didn't know she thought about having kids, and even though it made perfect sense, he had never imagined Inej in a Suli caravan. He knew that was where she grew up, but she didn't offer up much about it, before. He could picture Inej that way, young, dreaming. It was the sort of life she deserved—family, open road, an easy heart.

Her gaze had gone out to the ocean while she talked. It wasn't what she wanted anymore. Still, he thought, she wanted to travel. In a different way and to a different end, but she wanted to travel, to keep moving.

Smooth sea and a (hopefully) easy heart.

"Is he what you want?" Jesper asked.

Kaz Brekker would not travel with a Suli caravan. He would not make skillet bread. Jesper couldn't begin to picture Kaz as a father.

Inej sighed. "Yes," she said. "No. I'm not that girl anymore. I've learned to dream new dreams."

"He's one of them, though?"

"He is," she acknowledged, "but not the only one."

Jesper nodded. "Good. You deserve more."

"Mm," Inej murmured, non-committal. A moment later, she added, "I hope you're not comparing me and Kaz to you and Wylan."

"Of course I wasn't," he said.

Not convincing.

"It's not the same. You and Kaz have known each other for years."

"The heart is an arrow. It demands aim to land true."

As difficult as he sometimes found understanding her Suli proverbs, this one made perfect sense. Jesper understood the concepts, understood that such aim required knowledge and skill, but more than anything, it required will.

Nodding, he said, "And not everyone can aim." Catching movement on the canal, Jesper stood for a better look. "They're here!" he told Inej, grinning.

She stood beside him. "Is that…?"

"That's her," Jesper confirmed. "Marya Van Eck."

Inej smiled, but there was something else in it when she turned to Jesper, something mysterious and knowing.

"What?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"_What?_"

"Nothing."

"Fine. At least show me the quickest way off the roof."

Inej smiled that mysterious smile again, but she showed Jesper how to get quickly from the roof to the ground. Her way was a good deal more fun—a good deal riskier for someone like Jesper, who was a great climber but no acrobat. But it was the risk that made it fun!

When they hit the ground, Jesper brushed off his hands and clothes. Inej of course only had a few hairs out of place. Even if he hadn't been a naturally outgoing and sociable person, Jesper would have preferred putting his attention on others. He could watch them—Inej, Wylan, Kaz—he could watch them for ages. If he focused on most objects his vision started to shift and layer, his powers insisting he look not at them but into them. But he was no Corporalnik, he was a Fabrikator.

Objects might frustrate him.

People were different.

It was good, since he had come to realize since his da's visit that people were everything.


	19. Marya's Return

I did my best with the Dutch noun used in this chapter, but I haven't studied Dutch and there is a not insignificant chance I messed up. That said... it's just cookies.

* * *

"It's okay, Mama. Father's not here. He won't come back. You're safe; you're going to stay home for as long as you want. It's okay."

Wylan kept up a low, steady stream of reassurances as they stepped from the boat. Marya gripped his hand, her fingers painfully tight around his. He did nothing to discourage her. Wylan knew this was a frightening place to return to.

She took small, tentative steps.

Wylan hadn't considered how long she spent there, how unfamiliar the rest of the world was. The trip home had been challenging. She would inch away from him to look at something, then return to clutch his hand. Wylan had kept an arm around her shoulders when he could.

He walked her toward the mansion. He hadn't really thought through the details of this plan and more kept cropping up. Hadn't thought what her mind would be like after so long in that place. Hadn't thought what bringing her home really meant. Hadn't thought, hadn't thought, hadn't thought…

He clenched his jaw briefly. He hadn't. But he would learn.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes," she replied, her voice shaky.

"You must not have been on a boat in a long time."

She nodded. "The last… boat… that boat…"

"It's okay, Mama, it's okay. You're here now."

Mentally, Wylan pinched himself for being stupid enough to ask her about that boat. She had been scared getting on the boat to come home. Of course she had—the last time she boarded a boat, it took her to an asylum.

"Wylan?"

"Sunshine!"

He looked up, unsurprised to see Jesper and Inej approaching. They were both smiling. As stressful as the morning had been, he grinned back at them. His friends were here. Suddenly everything seemed… okay.

"You're here," Wylan said. "This is my mother, Marya Van Eck. Mama, you know Jesper, and this is our friend Inej Ghafa."

"Oh… hello," Marya said, giving them a vague look. "You're friends with my son?"

"Yes, ma'am," Inej replied, pleasant and polite. "Welcome home, Mrs. Van Eck."

"It's nice to see you again," Jesper added.

Marya looked from Inej to Jesper, then focused on a nearby tree.

"There used to be magpies."

"They're still there," Wylan said. "You'll see them tomorrow morning if you're up early enough."

"Time won't be the same here."

"It, uh… it… where should we go?" Wylan asked his mother. "Do you want to settle into your bedroom or play the piano again? Or I could play something for you? Or…"

"I think I'll settle in."

He gave his friends a look that might have been hopeful, or apologetic. He truly didn't know. With a twinge of shame, he realized he was embarrassed by his mother's absent-mindedness. It wasn't anything she could help! He knew that! He knew that Inej and Jesper understood… but as he showed her upstairs, they began to get some shocked looks from servants.

"Here we are—"

Marya suddenly went still.

"Mama? This is your bedroom, remember?"

She shook her head. "No, not here. Not mine, it's not mine, it's not mine…"

Wylan recognized the growing franticness in her tone. If he didn't help, this would escalate fast.

"It's okay."

He stepped in front of her.

"Mama, look at me. Mama. You're home now with your son, remember? With Wylan. We'll find you a nice space for your own. It doesn't need to be this room."

It had been a long day already for both of them, and once a room had been made up for Marya, she told Wylan she would like to lie down for a while. He told her that was a good idea.

All he could think about was finding Jesper, snuggling against him… Wylan didn't want to lean on Jesper constantly, but the thought of him certainly improved… everything. What was better than waking up well-rested in a soft bed? Waking up well-rested in a soft bed _next to Jesper_. What was better than an evening at the pianoforte? An evening at the pianoforte _with Jesper singing_. What was better than Jesper? Two Jespers, but that was too delightful for this imperfect world.

They didn't have a set time for lunch, but Wylan was late anyway. The weather was nice, if a bit brisk, and he joined Jesper and Inej at the wrought iron table outside. He helped himself to a roll and a piece of smoked herring from the plate in the middle of the table.

"Reaching across the table is rude," Jesper informed him.

"So is talking with your mouth full," Wylan retorted.

Jesper shrugged and said something about not being a merch, but his mouth was too full for Wylan to make out all the words.

"How are you, Wylan?" Inej asked.

"I think she'll be okay," Wylan said, hesitant hope in his voice. "She hasn't been out of Saint Hilde in years, it's a lot for her, but she recognizes the house. Maybe I should have told the staff she was coming home. They would have laughed at me, but at least they would have had some warning. I hope this won't make things harder for her."

He didn't notice the others staring at him until his mouth was full. Despite his earlier actions in obtaining his lunch, Wylan truly did try to show good manners. He didn't ask why they were giving him those looks.

After a moment, Inej said, "That's a nice sweater."

"It's Alys's," Jesper said.

Wylan made a noise of objection, but his mouth was still full. He chewed furiously. He needed to join in this conversation before it got worse.

It was Alys's sweater, from before she was pregnant. She had slim shoulders and wore one of those… what were they called? Wylan could never remember, those undergarments ladies used to trim their waistlines. The sweater was too small for her now, but just the right size for a boy who had spent six months slowly starving in the Barrel.

"Well, it suits you, Wylan," Inej said.

"He looks better without it."

Wylan replied with a blush and a surprisingly loud, pained whimper. He gulped his water to get his food down faster.

Inej giggled.

Well… _darn it!_ Now Wylan knew without a doubt he would continue taking the largest bites possible. Jesper would tease him. Inej would laugh. They were both so happy, and he wanted to do all he could to help them stay that way.

Unfortunately, no sooner had Wylan thought it than they were interrupted.

"Excuse me, Mister Wylan, but you have a visitor."

Wylan was briefly confused.

Then he felt dread sinking heavily through him.

_No…_

"Radmakker," Jesper said.

Of course. They had invited him in three days' time—it was three days' time.

Wylan swallowed.

"Okay," Wylan said. "Okay—I'll be along in a moment. If I ask for tea, I want it brought to the music room."

"Of course."

He kept himself put together until he, Jesper, and Inej were once more alone. Then Wylan dropped his head into his hands.

He wasn't ready for this! He and Jesper hadn't spent much time working on understanding the empire. They meant to, but… but things kept coming up. He didn't even have a jacket and hat in his size! No—he was at home—it was okay not to have a hat at home. He could scrounge up a tie but he was scarcely going to stick links in his shirt cuffs under a sweater.

No, no, no, he could do this!

He just needed a minute.

He needed to wash his face and hands, he needed to comb his hair, he needed to vomit repeatedly… and then he needed to gargle and clean his teeth so his breath didn't smell like vomit…

"Breathe," Jesper said, putting his hand on Wylan's shoulder. "It's okay, Wy."

Wylan shook his head. "I'm not ready."

"Yes, you are. You can do this."

"What if he wants me to…"

"He won't."

_Do one thing at a time._

Wylan took a shallow breath. He tried again and took a deep one. It made the world spin more slowly. Made him feel a little steadier.

"It's okay," Wylan said. "Jes, you'll be there, won't you?"

Jesper grinned. "Working in my official capacity as Mister Van Eck's secretary."

Wylan kissed him—only gently and only on the cheek, because they did not have time for distractions.

"I'll pay you later," he whispered, but knowing he had said it and Jesper had heard it was enough to light his face up bright red.

Jesper gave him a solemn, unamused look.

"We have an important guest, this is not the time for your shenanigans, Mister Van Eck."

Wylan laughed himself nearly to tears.

When he had caught his breath and dried his face, he shook his head and said, "Jesper Llewellyn Fahey, you are wonderful."

He truly didn't mention that enough, Wylan thought, and resolved to put more consideration into that matter. He didn't know how to be like Jesper, to brighten a room just by walking into it or say something sharp and quick to make someone smile. Of course, Jesper would say it wasn't about trade, that was just a Kerch way of looking at things, but Wylan wanted to find ways to make Jesper as happy as Jesper made him.

"Who said you could call me that!" Jesper demanded, laughing.

Wylan squeezed his hand and made no apology for using that other 'l' word.

"Ready?" Jesper asked.

Wylan nodded. He knew he was out of his depth with Radmakker, but the anxious knot in his chest had eased.

"Inej?"

"I'll sit this one out," she said.

"Your loss," Jesper told her drily, "merchers are fascinating."

"You don't mind yours," Inej retorted.

"Mine is a merch_ling_."

"Mm, I seem to recall someone saying I was a proper mercher," Wylan reminded Jesper.

"Clearly that person was a liar."

"He also called me beautiful."

Jesper paused a moment. He shrugged. "You must be a proper mercher after all, then."

_One thing at a time._

Wylan dipped his napkin in his water glass and wiped his hands clean, then combed his fingers through his hair. It wasn't perfect. _He_ wasn't perfect. But Radmakker was here now, so this would have to suffice.

"I'm ready," he said. "No mourners."

"No funerals," Jesper and Inej replied.

"Now," Jesper continued, "let's go show Radmakker how they make 'em in the Barrel."

"Jellen Radmakker believes I was studying music in Belendt…"

Which, Wylan realized, meant at some point he would need a story to explain how he met Jesper. _You see, I went with a group of school friends to the Barrel because young people often visit gambling dens and pleasure houses—um, no, that's not where I met Jesper, not in a gambling den or a pleasure house, outside! He and I both took the time to pray for Ghezen to guide these debauchers into seeing the error of their ways! _

He would figure that out later. Wylan knew Jesper would have a very different experience of Ketterdam being with Wylan as a merchant than their days in the Barrel, or on Black Veil when they started to become more than co-conspirators, or even in the Geldrenner. Here there were social expectations. Jesper being a man, being Zemeni, being a farmer's son… those things would raise eyebrows. There were two things Wylan could do about that. The first he would: be beside Jesper, be his boyfriend, love him, never let a single person doubt that.

The second… Wylan had come into this with a vague sense of what it meant to run an empire and a mild resolve to do his best, but really, was it a huge issue if… he had more than enough money to live a comfortable life. He didn't care about leaving a legacy.

But a wealthy enough man could do whatever he pleased in Kerch. Suddenly, Wylan resolved to make good. He would make so much money no one would think twice when they saw Jesper's hand in his.

_They wouldn't fucking dare._

Wylan swallowed that resolve for now. He needed to be pleasant, polite, ideally not too happy to have his father gone.

"Mister Radmakker, I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting," Wylan said, joining Radmakker where he had waited in the music room. He hadn't known himself where to ask that his guest wait with the sitting room off limits and the office gaping, but the music room got quite a lot of use lately. It was reasonable.

Jellen Radmakker rose and accepted Wylan's outstretched hand.

"Not at all," Radmakker said.

"This is Jesper Fahey," Wylan offered an introduction, but he didn't explain what Jesper was doing here.

He didn't need to.

"Mister Van Eck's secretary," Jesper said, also offering a handshake. To Radmakker's credit, though he was clearly dubious about the boy with the scuffed lime green waistcoat and pearl-handled revolvers, he accepted the handshake without question.

"A pleasure to meet you, Mister Fahey. How are you holding up, Wylan?"

Wylan felt the disapproving look Jesper shot him and he understood, but what else was Radmakker going to call him? The man had known Wylan since he was old enough to attend a social function, and seen him at church since he was nothing but a tuft of hair and a bundle of blankets. Of course he called a former peer's son by his first name—it was a courtesy he hadn't put 'young' in front of it.

"Well enough, under the circumstances," Wylan said, trying to sound mildly grim. "I can scarcely believe my father would have been involved with… well, he's always been such a devout man."

He had.

Jan Van Eck had attended church services regularly. He tithed honestly—at least Wylan thought he did—and, above all else, he worked tirelessly. An industrious man, his father. Not that Ghezen showed his hand only in prayer and business. Wylan had been told plenty of times that he was a curse from Ghezen, an affront to Ghezen, a trial from Ghezen. And, when he was very small, a gift from Ghezen, but that was when he showed a gift for numbers before he ought to learn to read.

"Perhaps he was misled," Radmakker ventured. "He was distraught over your kidnapping, that must have been what led him to work with Pekka Rollins. Rollins may well have been responsible."

Wylan tried to look thoughtful at the prospect. What he actually felt was terrified. What if Jan used that as a legal strategy? What if he tried to deflect the blame to Pekka, claimed a distraught frame of mind, or that he had been blackmailed? It was plausible enough with the right lawyer. Not that Wylan would provide adequate funds for any lawyer that good, but others on the Council might, if they were persuaded. How could Wylan dispute this? How could he put it to rest without showing his hand?

"I shouldn't think so," Wylan replied, hoping he sounded mildly insulted. "A Van Eck, led by a criminal like Rollins?"

He hated lying.

He hated lying.

But, he told himself, Rollins _was_ filth. Everyone knew that. It wasn't from his being in the Barrel. It was who Pekka was.

"I suppose," Radmakker ceded.

"Besides, the partnership began earlier. Father had Rollins—do what he did. Tell me, Mister Radmakker," Wylan said, "what business? If it's a social visit I'll have tea brought."

"Tea would be lovely. It is a social call. I was concerned for your welfare after your ordeal."

Concerned? Or sounding him out as a businessman? Wylan pondered as he asked for that tea.

Radmakker had always been kind to Wylan. He had given him sweets as a child, and as Wylan grew older, Radmakker remembered that he was a flautist and asked about his music. But… had it been kindness? Or the building of a seemingly inevitable business relationship?

In the end, did it matter? Wylan could never have a truly honest relationship with nearly anyone. He glanced at Jesper, unable to keep from giving him a small smile. Jesper was here. Observing. Keeping Wylan from losing his mind. There was nothing to shoot and precious little to do, nothing requiring a secretary, but still he was here.

Radmakker noticed.

"You'll be joining us, Mister Fahey?"

Jesper opened his mouth to answer, but Wylan was faster: "He will indeed."

He didn't state the reason, but he gently placed his hand in Jesper's and took a step towards the little table with its collection of seats drawn up. It had served as the dinner table the past few nights, when they weren't gathering on the floor instead. Perfect place for tea.

The move had been forward. Wylan glanced at Jesper's face—hopefully he hadn't minded. If anything, Jesper looked thrilled.

Radmakker looked briefly confused, then surprised, before recovering his usual neutral merch demeanor with an, "I see." Then he took a seat opposite the two of them.

"How did you find the school at Belendt?" Radmakker asked.

"I'm afraid I wasn't there long. And I haven't been able to play in…"

"I'm sorry. I know you're very fond of your flute."

"I… thank you," Wylan said, forgetting to be suspicious with how genuine Radmakker sounded. It was just—it was nice to have that acknowledged. He loved his music. He loved his flute. While he didn't expect most people to share his passion, it was strangely soothing to have that passion acknowledged.

He was saved having to change the subject by the arrival of the tea.

"Thank you, Jette."

She poured the tea for the three of them, then once more left them alone. Wylan took the opportunity of Radmakker's distraction to meet Jesper's eyes and give him a quick smile. This had to be boring him. Perhaps they could do something exciting later, thought Wylan, with a heavy dose of sarcasm at the prospect of himself finding something exciting to do.

He nibbled the edge of a _krakeling_ cookie as he looked for the next thing to say.

"Will you be returning to school?"

"It's not my plan for the immediate future," Wylan said. "There's so much to take care of with the company, setting things in order, so much to learn, and that—that business with the Shu—I need to be here."

It was strange to think about how excited Wylan had once felt on the way to Belendt, how hopeful. He believed a new life awaited him. He believed there was a fresh start. In a way, he wasn't wrong—but the idea now of going to the music school seemed so foolish. It was the foolish dream of a different Wylan Van Eck.

"Your father cared for you a great deal."

Wylan must not have been able to hide his surprise. He knew he needed to pretend his father loved him. He knew he needed to pretend he loved his father. But why was Radmakker bringing it up now?

"It's a huge responsibility. He wanted you to have time to be a musician before you inherited that responsibility. The company. Your family name, the Van Ecks' standing in Ketterdam. I don't mean to overwhelm you with it. On the contrary, I want you to understand the enormity of what you've inherited. I want…" Radmakker glanced from Wylan to Jesper, back to Wylan, then he said, "Wylan, if I can be of assistance to you in learning to manage the business, please don't hesitate to ask."

Oh. That was… not the conclusion Wylan expected.

He wished he could take it at face value. He wanted to believe that Radmakker really was just offering his help—but he couldn't. He couldn't take it at face value. Radmakker could too easily have an ulterior motive. Jan had fleeced the rest of the Council. Endearing himself to Wylan, earning Wylan's trust, might be the first step in swindling him in return to even the score.

Yet Wylan couldn't keep the man at too much of a distance, either, not only because he wanted too badly to accept the offer. He needed a good relationship with… with his peers.

"Thank you, Mister Radmakker," Wylan said. "I—"

"_You_."

All three of them turned to the doorway.

"Marya," Radmakker gasped.

Wylan was already halfway out of his seat.

"You!"

"Mama, it's okay!"

She looked so afraid.

Her eyes locked on Wylan, wide, wild.

Desperately, urgently, she told him, "You mustn't trust him, this man is a friend of—he may be working with Jan, he—"

"No, Mama," Wylan said.

"Mrs. Van Eck," Radmakker said.

He knew her, from before. He knew her, but not like this, not so drastically aged in under a decade, nor would he have ever seen her in a nightgown, let alone in the middle of the day, and barefoot, her hair cropped short and uncombed. This wasn't how a merchant's wife presented herself.

She looked, Wylan thought with a stab, mad.

"You can't be here!"

"It's okay," Wylan said.

"He can't! Get out!"

"Mama, please, it's okay—"

Wylan stepped closer, worried by her dramatic gesturing. He should have known better. He should have known it would remind her of the asylum, it would scare her more.

Marya shrieked and went to push him away, and Wylan—flinched.

He hadn't been ready. With someone else—Kaz, with Kaz he would have been ready. Because it was her, because they were in this place…

Marya's eyes welled with tears. She turned away.

"Mama."

She shook her head. Then she just shook.

"Oh, my boy, my Wylan…"

"Mama, it's okay, I'm here. It's okay."

"No, no, no…"

"Mama…"

He stepped forward again, faster, wrapping his arms around her to stop her doing either of them any more harm. He couldn't make out the words she was shouting. He tried to close his ears to it. Wylan could remember an awful lot…

"It's okay," he told her, trying to soothe her, trying to promise, trying to forget that Radmakker was seeing this and Jesper was seeing this too. "It's okay, shh, you're home now. You're safe. It's okay, Mama, it's okay."

When Marya had shouted and wept herself to exhaustion, Wylan helped her toward the stairs. Bed. They would get her to bed, and she would sleep, and this would all look better in the morning.

That was when he spotted the child standing there. Gavrie was shivering. From his illness? Or from fear? Either way the boy was shaking, watching Wylan with wide eyes.

"I'll be right back, Gavrie. Wait for me, yes?"

Gavrie nodded.

Wylan helped his mother up the stairs. He helped her back to bed and rubbed circles on her back while she cried. He whispered soothing words that probably didn't help. Honestly, how could he comfort her when he felt scraped raw inside himself? Wylan blamed no one for this situation, but he couldn't imagine how he was to recover from it.

Once Marya was calmer and reassured that Wylan wouldn't trust Radmakker too far and wouldn't let anyone take her away, he kissed her cheek and left her alone with her thoughts. He hated to leave her, but had already abandoned Jesper with Radmakker and left a frightened Gavrie far too long.

The child first—but he wasn't there. Wylan peered down the next hallway, but he couldn't go looking.

Instead he returned to the music room.

Radmakker looked shaken despite Jesper's best efforts to keep a cheery conversation going.

"Wylan," Radmakker said, "I… see you need your privacy. If you would be so kind as to accompany me to the canal?"

Wylan understood what Radmakker meant: Wylan alone. He glanced at Jesper. Right now, Wylan just wanted a nap. He wished he could curl up and cry himself to sleep, but that was a luxury he did not have. Instead he stood and tried not to let on how badly the knot inside him ached. It was like all the fears and stresses and unshed tears had wound together, tired of being ignored.

"Of course, Mister Radmakker."

Whatever Radmakker thought, Wylan saw that Jesper understood. And didn't care.

As they walked, Radmakker said, rather unsteadily, "It would seem I had very little understanding of my friend Jan and what went on in his house. My offer stands, if you need anything… if you need assistance with the business… but I must say a word about the company you're keeping."

_Don't,_ Wylan thought, but he said, "If you feel you must, Mister Radmakker."

"I do. Several times a young Suli woman has been spotted in your company."

"That's my friend Inej."

"She is a known associate of Kaz Brekker. You may not know how dangerous she is—they both are."

"Inej is my friend," Wylan stressed. "I trust her with my life."

"Wylan, it's not only her. Your young man…"

"Jesper was with a gang, too. I know. I appreciate your concern, Mister Radmakker, but what better way to show such people Ghezen's wisdom than to embrace them?"

It was a ridiculous lie. It was ridiculous enough to keep Radmakker off his back.

"Do look after yourself," Radmakker said, by way of farewell. Then, to Wylan's surprise, Radmakker reached out and placed a hand on Wylan's shoulder. "This will be a challenging time for all of us and you're very young, but it will be all right. You're not alone."

"Thank you." He truly meant it.

Wylan waited a few moments. He wanted to be certain Radmakker was out of earshot before he asked, "You heard that, didn't you?"

"Yes."

Broad daylight and still Inej materialized as if from thin air.

Wylan gave her a crooked grin. It hurt, grinning like that, but he needed it, too. "You're very disreputable, Miss Ghafa."

Inej laughed. "Am I, Mister Van Eck?"

"Don't call me that!" he protested, laughing. It was less weird when she said it, but still strange to hear. "Do you want to come with me? I need to give a 7-year-old some cookies and Jesper a massive amount of gratitude."

"I'll come if I can have cookies, too."

"Always," Wylan said, offering his arm. Inej looped her arm through his.

"I would have come with you anyway."

"I know."

Until they all came to stay on Geldstraat, Wylan hadn't thought about how little he saw Inej smile. Why would he? He hadn't seen her as a person, not really. He saw her more the way a small child sees an adult despite the fact they were nearly the same age. Inej was enigmatic, graceful, efficient… it made perfect sense to him that she was a Sankta-to-be. Inej had been kind, too. She had hugged Wylan. Twice. But it never felt like being hugged by a friend so much as granted a benediction.

Here the mask slipped. She wasn't the Wraith, she was Inej. They had played together. They had seen each other vulnerable. Despite the jobs they worked together, this was the first time Wylan felt like he and Inej had been on equal footing.

When Inej had grinned and taken his arm, Wylan felt inexplicably but undeniably better. The knot in his belly eased. Things were okay.

They found Gavrie in the kitchen with his aunt.

"He didn't mean any harm," Miss Molenaar said. "I've already spoken with him. He knows there'll be a consequence for wandering around."

"Please don't," Wylan said. He knew he should have been more tactful, more measured. But he was weary, and he didn't want people to be afraid of him. There had been enough fear in this house. "I'm not my father, Miss Molenaar. I'm not going to threaten your job. I just want to make sure he's not scared. My mother was… agitated."

Miss Molenaar glanced behind her, where Gavrie was curled up in the corner.

Wylan understood. He had been through more than enough today.

Rather than press the matter, he said, "That blanket's probably still in the sitting room. He looks cold."

Then he and Inej headed for the music room. Jesper had shifted to the floor and had a cup of tea and several _krakelingen_.

"How did it go, Jesper?" Inej asked.

Wylan followed up with, "How's the world's best boyfriend?"

"I don't know, how are you?"

"Lucky. I've got you."

Inej threw a pillow at them. It hit Wylan in the chest. He caught it before it could rebound and tossed it back to Inej.

"It could have been worse," Jesper offered optimistically.

Wylan sighed and slumped onto the floor beside Jesper. "How?"

"No one died. Nothing was lit on fire. The cookies are excellent, you should have one. Did Radmakker warn you about what a bad man I am?"

"He did," Wylan admitted, taking a cookie and biting into it.

"Don't hold out."

Wylan gave Jesper a tired smiled. This had been a tough morning, but being here with Jesper made everything better. It was what he wanted to hear even if the idea of Jesper being a danger to him was ridiculous, so Wylan said, "You're a very scary and dangerous gang member."

"But Wylan's going to show you Ghezen's wisdom," Inej added as she poured herself a cup of tea.

"Yeah?" Jesper asked.

"Mmf," Wylan replied, his mouth full. He swallowed, chased the cookie with a gulp of tea, and said, "I'm going to show you Ghezen's wisdom by embracing you, apparently."

"_Are you_?"

"I mean—that's what I said, but—"

"Well, don't make yourself a liar, gorgeous."

"Um—the problem is I won't want to let go."

"You have an interesting and, by the way, wrong, definition of a problem."

Wylan wrapped an arm around Jesper. It was true what he said. He didn't want to let go.

"Of course," he added, "nothing I do could possibly bring you closer to Ghezen."

"Are you calling me a heathen?"

"I'm calling me a heathen."

Jesper put an arm around Wylan's shoulders. "I'm sorry about Marya."

Wylan shrugged. When Jesper began to move his arm away, though, Wylan reached up and slid his free hand over Jesper's._ No. Please._

"I didn't know what to say. That's all. She's here. I can take care of her, and she'll get better. Thank you for all your help with Radmakker."

"I want to be a part of things, Wy."

"Even the boring things?"

"If there are good snacks."

Wylan laughed weakly. It had been easier to laugh when he was outside and warm in the sunshine. Indoors, everything felt… dim. He didn't know what to say, so he reached for another cookie.

He didn't know what possessed him to say what he did next. The words just popped out of Wylan's mouth: "Do you want to play the question game?"

Immediately he turned a scalding shade of pink. Of course they didn't want to play the question game! That was so dumb and childish and _idle_…

"How do you play?" Inej asked.

"You have to ask a question," Wylan explained, looking determinedly at his cookie. They were going to laugh at him for this…

They did, but not how he expected.

"Statement," Inej replied, "one point against Wylan. Are you playing, Jesper?"

Jesper grinned. "Do you think I'm playing?"

"Should we think you're playing?" Wylan asked. He was onto them now!

"Why wouldn't Jesper play?"

"Do you think he doesn't want me to play?"

"Why wouldn't I want you to play?"

"Are you concerned he'll be better than you?"

"Are you concerned I'll _distract_ you?"

How could Jesper do that? How did he take an ordinary word, dress it up in smooth silk and tie a bow around it so average things became special and secret?

Wylan was too busy blushing and snickering to reply.

"Hesitation, two points against Wylan," Inej said.

"You might have given him a moment!"

Inej grinned wickedly. "Statement, one point against Jesper."

Jesper and Wylan only grew sillier as the game progressed, until Inej gave up and declared there was no sport in defeating them. Jesper graciously accepted her surrender and declared himself the victor. Wylan hugged his arms across his belly, snorting laughter. His earlier anxiety was gone, leaving only a bruise in its place.

Jesper pulled Wylan half into his lap.

"I claim this merchling as my prize," he said.

Wylan was laughing too hard to reply, but he reached up to tap-tap-tap Jesper's hand. Jesper held him tight and pressed kisses to his neck.

Once Wylan had caught his breath, Inej said, "I think you forget, Jesper, that I'm the rightful winner."

"You can't have him," Jesper replied.

"I don't want him."

"Hey!" Wylan objected. But, in the name of fairness: "You both deserve a prize. How about the rest of the cookies, Inej?"

"Deal."

"Mine's better."

"Don't be a sore winner, Jes. Though—you're right."

Wylan could almost hear him grinning.

"Hey… do you… do you like our bedroom?"

"_Our_ bedroom, huh?" Jesper asked. "Sure. It's nice."

"What if we were to use a different one?"

"I'm all ears, gorgeous. As long as you don't mean the nursery."

Wylan glanced at Inej, who was watching him curiously, then up at Jesper who still had Wylan in a delightfully possessive hug.

"I have to ask your help again—but no, it's not about the nursery."


End file.
